A Quiet Man
A Day in the Life
Each day he dutifully rose to the darkness that marked the early mornings of Maine’s long winter. The sun was too cautious to rise early enough to illuminate the closet, as the man probed the dark suits that hung neatly in an order of decreasing tone. Through some quiet calculus, he would select one, and lay it neatly on the newly made bed, made in a military fashion that would flawlessly rebound a dropped quarter. With one coffee down and another in stainless steel oversized gray mug, he turned the engine of his conventional Ford sedan, scrutinizing the sound of the brief click of the solenoid as it begrudgingly engaged the gears to turn the engine which struggled and won a battle against the bitter cold with a roar of life.
He pressed the electronic door opener on the car’s visor and the door opened obediently. The overhead light of the door never shined as the man had disconnected it during installation which marked a trend that included a house with drawn shades and a car with a dome light never on. Darkness, though it fostered cold and fear in others, sheltered him like a warm woolen blanket. His vehicle merged onto the highway with other cars quickly becoming lost like a single fish, in a school of mindless fish, in a sea sameness, on a day like every other day, or so it seemed.
He passed his keycard through the card reader and opened the door into his office space, reached for the light switch and heard the clunk of the relays engaging the fluorescent that too brightly blinked a rapid, almost imperceptible pattern of aging inconsistency. These lights showcased cubical after cubical of likeness and regularity. Scant were the artifacts of originality on the cubicle walls. The desks supported little more than the references, papers and computers needed for the labor done with the exception, perhaps, of a picture of a youthful face or a smiling spouse.
He walked into the cube with the name Vincent Merchaud loosely velcroed to the cloth siding. He set the mug down on his desk in front of the attractive and smiling face of possibly someone’s wife, and mused briefly, on how he would like to meet her someday. He turned the computer on and the Windows logo welcomed him and the desktop appeared showing the default background which he wistfully thought looked like the sloping form of a woman’s back leading to her buttocks.
He had known few women closely, over his 40 plus years of life, but none knew him well. The women of his twenties could not know what he did. And the few he met now, could not know about then. It was a conundrum he was yet to resolve and was not confident he ever would. So to avoid complications, he welcomed the distraction of work, and wore a ring, and pretended to a life not his own.
He was just back from his second cigarette break, on his fourth cup of coffee, when the rapid electronic bleating of his phone rang. The caller ID identified the caller as unknown. He looked at ‘Unknown’, boldly displayed on the screen. This was strange because, unknown calls were not supposed to get through the electronic switchboard. Curiosity was not something he abided, spontaneity not something he favored. But he was curious. He answered the phone and a hermaphroditic voice spoke for 30 seconds before Vincent responded with a single word ‘Yes’. Then he quietly set the phone back in its cradle. He knew his former life had returned. His forced retirement was over. He selected shutdown from the ‘Start’ bar, an oxymoron he often found amusing, and watched the light shut-off on his second life. He left his briefcase on the desk next to his house and car keys. He knew the company would dust away this life. He knew that excuses would be made for his disappearance, to the few that knew this name. He knew the house would be sold by a relator he would never see. He also knew he would never resolve to meet the woman in the picture.
He climbed into the idling ink black Chevrolet Suburban, that waited for him at the curb. He closed the door and disappeared behind the darkly tinted rear seat window. The vehicle joined countless others heading in the direction of the airport. The jet’s tires skidded on the runway and the Citation’s twin engine roared breaking the jet and waking the man from a fitful shallow sleep. He was in ‘field’ mode. Grabbing sleep whenever and for as long as you could when it was safe to do so. In his life number two, he was careful steward of the government expenditure. In life number one, he did what he had to; he spent what was required. The boondoggle that he was the only passenger never crossed his mind.
He had an enviable way of segmenting these lives. His personality traits were easily placed on separate shelves and interchanged, when needed; to form the person he was asked to be like a jigsaw puzzle with many possible solutions. Vincent Merchaud was now deceased, dead and buried in the distant past of that morning and replaced by the rapidly evolving Vincent Coburn. He was no longer a retired CIA operative hiding from a world of retribution. He was again an active agent exposed like none other for he was recognizable to the nefarious horde that he stung so many times in the up close and personal way of a hornet or with the long range precision afforded by the slightly modified, military issue Mk-13,.30 caliber rifle. Ian Fleming familiarized the Licensed to Kill designation as a term used by the British clandestine service. The United States either by plan or by obfuscation doesn’t employ such a telling descriptor for the few cherry picked agents that possess Vincent’s talents. But the US does like euphemisms and the one Vincent preferred was “The Go-to Guy.”
The Go-to Guy
Vincent walked past a field of cubicles and noticed the same sky blue colored cloth walls and sparsely personalized workspaces occupied by engaged and brightly lit faces. It was somehow the same, but very much different from the ordinary workspaces of the traditional office space he left just two hours before. He paused at the director’s new receptionist. He had a fling with the pervious one, Emily, and wondered if her flirtations had cost her the job, or whether she had rode her ambition and landed in an elevated position.
The new receptionist, Margaret, possessed an almost motherly look in her clear blue eyes and her graying hair spoke to the self-assurance of someone not needing to disguise who she was by a bit of vain hair dye. Vincent lips creased briefly, belying for him as much of a smile as he typically offered. She did not ask who he was or what he was doing there. She knew, “The director will see you now.” Vincent entered the office. The door closed behind him and the electronic sound of the lock engaging could faintly be heard over the hum of the lights and whir of the fans circulating air.
The executive office space of many directors in corporate America, were glass bubbles looking out on the vastness of a sprawling metropolitan skyline. But at the agency, this director’s office was deep in the interior of the building, shielded electronically and structurally to prevent spillage. The windowless walls were not barren. They did not look out upon a metropolitan skyline; but they did have a multitude of monitors that could reveal the vastness of the CIA operations throughout the world. At this time, only one monitor was illuminated, the mission brief was named Devil’s Hornet. The PowerPoints lead caption read:
The LORD thy God will send the hornet among them, until they that are left, and hide themselves from thee, be destroyed.
Deuteronomy 7.20
Vincent was not a religious man, did see the irony of the verse, for he was referred to as the Devil’s Hornet by at least two terrorist organizations. He listened without emotion to a plan to eliminate two of ISIL’s most prominent targets. Aahil Fahed, was the mastermind behind many of the world’s most recent terrorist strikes and the butcher Abdul Hafeez who of late chose a sword to dispatch his victims on the stage of the world wide web. Both these targets were thought to be together somewhere in the dusty streets of Tikrit. But with no specific intelligence, a drone strike was out of the question. They needed a smart bomb like no other. A bomb that would be delivered to the feet of the criminals and a bomb that no longer served a more valuable purpose. The opportunity to decline did not register to Vincent conscience. All he heard was duty and opportunity. The plan as outlined was simple it was based on two truths. The first, that Vincent had been extremely successful at eliminating targets as a sniper in the service and then again as agent for the CIA this is how he earned the label the Devil’s Hornet. The second truth is that his cover was blown. He was unwittingly photographed, in an act of heroism preventing the hijacking and likely destruction of a commercial jet, over the Indian Ocean. In this day of selfies and tweets the actionable life expectancy of an operative was capricious at best.
Where Angels Fear to Tread
On the flight to Tikrit Iraq, the surgeon introduced a ¼ kilo of binary compounds, a variant of HELIX (High Energy Liquid Explosive), into Vincent’s abdomen. And replaced a molar with a piezoelectric activator that would send a small charge at a selective frequency (80 hz), through Vincent’s body. All Vincent would need to do is bite. The charge itself would be hardly noticeable, but the detonator was keyed to this precise frequency and would initiate the HELIX explosion. It was simple, bite down and everyone in the room would be dead. They used the scars of existing wound to conceal the insertion point and a gel that instantly sutured the wound. The operational parameters were by far the fewest of any mission Vincent was ever assigned. He would disembark the jet at Tikrit southern airport. This airport was known to be infiltrated by IS operatives. He would be recognized. The word would spread quickly that the Devil’s Hornet, had surfaced and was within reach. Vincent would put up only moderate resistance, allowing himself to be captured and not killed. A gamble true, but if Fahed continued to play to form, Vincent’s beheading would be a huge recruitment tool, one Fahed wouldn’t pass up. And if by chance, he was not captured, then the HELIX would be removed and Vincent’s new tooth could remain and could prove useful if he ever found himself far from caffeine and in need of a jolt.
Winter in Tikrit was more like winter in DC than winter in Portland Maine. It was dry 40Ëšƒ. Vincent’s newly shaved neck itched but it was nice to be rid the heavy overcoat. It had been two years since he was clean shaven the beard starting growing out days after the video went viral on YouTube. It showed the grainy images of Vincent flying around the cramped cabin incapacitating two assailants, one with a lethal blow the larynx, the other a strangle hold that allowed the second man to eventually regain consciousness in the custody of Indian authorities.
Beyond the dust strewn runway and the absent amenities of Tikrit’s southern airport a number of men noticed a new mark, an obvious American. Vincent, creating an air of uncertainty, opened a travel brochure that he picked up at the counter inside. He listened to their argument, in Arabic, over who would take the American ‘for a ride’. The youngest of them presented the most persuasive argument claiming that he needed the practice. He came up to Vincent, dressed in white Adidas sneakers, torn jeans, a dirty red button up shirt and a pack of cigarettes in his breast pocket. He sported two caterpillar growths of hair over his lip; that he no doubt hoped would one day join. In broken English, he offered his taxi for a ride. Vincent followed the man who carried Vincent’s one piece of luggage through several side streets until they came to his taxi. It was a Vintage Toyota Corolla, with more rust holes than bullet holes through the car doors. He opened the door and tossed the luggage inside. Vincent sat down and explained he was staying at the Hotel at Saddam’s Palace. The boy’s eyebrows raised and he said the cost would be 230,000 Dinar. Vincent eyes turned cold and said 23,000 Dinar, which was roughly 20 dollars, to which the boy said, “Yes that’s what I meant.”
The drive along the Tigris to the palace was quite beautiful, if you could look past the dry desolation of the land, the upturned vehicles tossed about like matchsticks from long past IEDs, and the buildings partially demolished by years of gun and mortar fire, which was still home to a troubled people. Vincent never let himself think about the morality of what he did. He never argued the merits of US involvement. But would ISIL be active in Tikrit, indeed in Iraq, if it were not for the removal of Saddam Hussein. Passing the gates of the palace was like entering a theme park in the United States, wealthy, verdant and new. Fountains pumped water into the air in a display of opulence that was not exceeded anywhere else in the Middle East. Vincent tipped the boy generously who smiled and shook Vincent’s hand. Hopefully, that’s one kid that won’t carry an AK, Vincent thought.
As he pulled out his luggage he noticed the van that had followed them since the airport, slide slowly past the gate. They had taken the bait. Vincent, surveilled the security of the hotel and assessed it was too good to present him as an easy target. He went to his room, his stomach felt queasy no doubt from having to share its space with a cylindrical plastic pouch that was not unlike the material used in breast implants. He rested briefly listening to a haunting call to prayer from a distant minaret. How could so many people become so radicalized in the name of such a beautiful religion? He knew that many saw giving up their lives to kill the infidels as the path to martyrdom and this was the strength they tapped as the detonated the bombs. He wished he could find the same supposed serenity when he would detonate his. In this troubled way, Vincent drifted off to sleep, giving his hosts time to plan for his reception.
It was a new day in Tikrit but he was at the end of a very long day east coast time when he made his way down to the taxi stand in front of the hotel. The men here were, better dressed and their English markedly superior to the boy from the airport taxi stand. Vincent chose the oldest among them, a man hardened by the sun and probably by loss, over years of living in this active war zone. He chose the old man, because like him, they had both become dispensable. Vincent knew the likely abduction would come next. Vincent was rarely wrong.
It came, not surprisingly, less than five blocks from the gates of the palace. A low yield IED, exploded under the right front tire leaving both Vincent and the driver shell shocked. Vincent was dragged into the same white van from before. The old man was left to bleed and moan. Vincent remained semi-conscious aware of the speeding vehicle, sudden turns, and jarring bumps. He was aware of Arabic being spoken but through the fog he couldn’t translate it. He was aware of the tooth, the trigger. He saw the butt end of the AK but didn’t feel the pain it delivered.
He woke, naked, soaked, and kneeling. His hands tied behind his back and the rope tied to a rotted rafter in the ceiling of the dilapidated building. He became aware of four distinct male voices excited and speaking about him. His Arabic had returned and he learned they were waiting for the butcher and Fahed. It sounded like the plan would work flawlessly. One of his captors was already filming the scene, less the scimitar. But Vincent had no plan to wait for that. He labored to his feet and one of guards drove the butt end of an AK into the back of his knees driving him back down to the ground, Vincent fell against the rope and his 220 pounds of straining muscles shook the rafter.
“You wait for the Butcher.” Spoke the guard.
It wasn’t a long before Vincent heard the rumble of a heavy vehicle’s tires screech to a stop on the stone and gravel street outside the building. The excited voices spoke that Hafeez, The Butcher, had arrived. A short, balding, middle age man entered the room, only noteworthy for the 3 feet of glittering steel, with a precisely honed edge, which he adeptly wielded in mock strikes against Vincent’s neck. Vincent wondered if the other westerner saw this gaunt man’s face before he dawned his mask to slay them. The butcher held the blade against Vincent’s carotid ever so slightly drawing blood and said, "I will take your head for the world to see once Fahed has had a chance to question you."
The Butcher’s English was very, very good, posh in fact. Damned if he didn’t sound English Vincent calmly spoke, “Kensington right?”
The Butcher chuckled. “You are a pro. Eaton. I graduated cum laude with a degree economics. Now you are just trying to beguile me, but I will still take your head. Perhaps, I’ll start with this pretty little head here first.” He said pointing to Vincent’s crotch. That could improve our YouTube ratings. I can see the caption now, “The Hornet’s stinger falls off as the Butcher’s blade cuts cleanly through.”
“Or perhaps,” Vincent began, “One might read the butcher slays the Hornet in a battle of two warriors.”
“If you’re implying that I should set you free and arm you, then you are daft. I know what you are capable of. And you know what I am good at.”
Vincent went on, “Now how sporting can that be. I’ll be kneeling and you’ll swing your sword.”
“Yes, how delightfully your head will role.” The British had it right during the reign of Henry VIII. Do you know he had slain over 57,000 people! I have barely gotten started. And the broad swords used in Medieval England beheadings were often dull, or the executer clumsy, careless or too inept to complete the decapitation with a single blow. Why, I read one execution actually took 4 blows. I can assure you, however, that you will feel no pain. Your end will come quickly--painlessly. He leaned into Vincent, so closely that Vincent could smell the cardamom spice on the Butcher’s breath. It will be quick as long as stay still. Your head will be severed on the first lithe swing of my scimitar.
“That is comforting.” Vincent said. Although he had no plan to remain still. Vincent kept probing the Butcher with idyll banter and finally concluded there were five other men and that Fahed would be accompanied by a single body guard. Vincent rose at the arrival of the man and the guards permitted it, deferring now entirely to Fahed’s wishes and commands. Even the Butcher deference was palatable.
The moment of the transition of authority from the Butcher to the Fahed would be Vincent’s best opportunity to accomplish his goal of killing everyone in the room and perhaps saving himself. With one massive lunge and pull against the rope the rafter gave way.
The video aired that evening showing a naked, soaked, and kneeling Vincent followed almost immediately by a similar scene of a hooded man. The camera caught the arching swing of the scimitar as it cleanly decapitated the man under the hood. The part where the head rolled onto the floor near six other bodies would not be shown on the World Wide Web.
Vincent had his old life back.
Each day he dutifully rose to the darkness that marked the early mornings of Maine’s long winter. The sun was too cautious to rise early enough to illuminate the closet, as the man probed the dark suits that hung neatly in an order of decreasing tone. Through some quiet calculus, he would select one, and lay it neatly on the newly made bed, made in a military fashion that would flawlessly rebound a dropped quarter. With one coffee down and another in stainless steel oversized gray mug, he turned the engine of his conventional Ford sedan, scrutinizing the sound of the brief click of the solenoid as it begrudgingly engaged the gears to turn the engine which struggled and won a battle against the bitter cold with a roar of life.
He pressed the electronic door opener on the car’s visor and the door opened obediently. The overhead light of the door never shined as the man had disconnected it during installation which marked a trend that included a house with drawn shades and a car with a dome light never on. Darkness, though it fostered cold and fear in others, sheltered him like a warm woolen blanket. His vehicle merged onto the highway with other cars quickly becoming lost like a single fish, in a school of mindless fish, in a sea sameness, on a day like every other day, or so it seemed.
He passed his keycard through the card reader and opened the door into his office space, reached for the light switch and heard the clunk of the relays engaging the fluorescent that too brightly blinked a rapid, almost imperceptible pattern of aging inconsistency. These lights showcased cubical after cubical of likeness and regularity. Scant were the artifacts of originality on the cubicle walls. The desks supported little more than the references, papers and computers needed for the labor done with the exception, perhaps, of a picture of a youthful face or a smiling spouse.
He walked into the cube with the name Vincent Merchaud loosely velcroed to the cloth siding. He set the mug down on his desk in front of the attractive and smiling face of possibly someone’s wife, and mused briefly, on how he would like to meet her someday. He turned the computer on and the Windows logo welcomed him and the desktop appeared showing the default background which he wistfully thought looked like the sloping form of a woman’s back leading to her buttocks.
He had known few women closely, over his 40 plus years of life, but none knew him well. The women of his twenties could not know what he did. And the few he met now, could not know about then. It was a conundrum he was yet to resolve and was not confident he ever would. So to avoid complications, he welcomed the distraction of work, and wore a ring, and pretended to a life not his own.
He was just back from his second cigarette break, on his fourth cup of coffee, when the rapid electronic bleating of his phone rang. The caller ID identified the caller as unknown. He looked at ‘Unknown’, boldly displayed on the screen. This was strange because, unknown calls were not supposed to get through the electronic switchboard. Curiosity was not something he abided, spontaneity not something he favored. But he was curious. He answered the phone and a hermaphroditic voice spoke for 30 seconds before Vincent responded with a single word ‘Yes’. Then he quietly set the phone back in its cradle. He knew his former life had returned. His forced retirement was over. He selected shutdown from the ‘Start’ bar, an oxymoron he often found amusing, and watched the light shut-off on his second life. He left his briefcase on the desk next to his house and car keys. He knew the company would dust away this life. He knew that excuses would be made for his disappearance, to the few that knew this name. He knew the house would be sold by a relator he would never see. He also knew he would never resolve to meet the woman in the picture.
He climbed into the idling ink black Chevrolet Suburban, that waited for him at the curb. He closed the door and disappeared behind the darkly tinted rear seat window. The vehicle joined countless others heading in the direction of the airport. The jet’s tires skidded on the runway and the Citation’s twin engine roared breaking the jet and waking the man from a fitful shallow sleep. He was in ‘field’ mode. Grabbing sleep whenever and for as long as you could when it was safe to do so. In his life number two, he was careful steward of the government expenditure. In life number one, he did what he had to; he spent what was required. The boondoggle that he was the only passenger never crossed his mind.
He had an enviable way of segmenting these lives. His personality traits were easily placed on separate shelves and interchanged, when needed; to form the person he was asked to be like a jigsaw puzzle with many possible solutions. Vincent Merchaud was now deceased, dead and buried in the distant past of that morning and replaced by the rapidly evolving Vincent Coburn. He was no longer a retired CIA operative hiding from a world of retribution. He was again an active agent exposed like none other for he was recognizable to the nefarious horde that he stung so many times in the up close and personal way of a hornet or with the long range precision afforded by the slightly modified, military issue Mk-13,.30 caliber rifle. Ian Fleming familiarized the Licensed to Kill designation as a term used by the British clandestine service. The United States either by plan or by obfuscation doesn’t employ such a telling descriptor for the few cherry picked agents that possess Vincent’s talents. But the US does like euphemisms and the one Vincent preferred was “The Go-to Guy.”
The Go-to Guy
Vincent walked past a field of cubicles and noticed the same sky blue colored cloth walls and sparsely personalized workspaces occupied by engaged and brightly lit faces. It was somehow the same, but very much different from the ordinary workspaces of the traditional office space he left just two hours before. He paused at the director’s new receptionist. He had a fling with the pervious one, Emily, and wondered if her flirtations had cost her the job, or whether she had rode her ambition and landed in an elevated position.
The new receptionist, Margaret, possessed an almost motherly look in her clear blue eyes and her graying hair spoke to the self-assurance of someone not needing to disguise who she was by a bit of vain hair dye. Vincent lips creased briefly, belying for him as much of a smile as he typically offered. She did not ask who he was or what he was doing there. She knew, “The director will see you now.” Vincent entered the office. The door closed behind him and the electronic sound of the lock engaging could faintly be heard over the hum of the lights and whir of the fans circulating air.
The executive office space of many directors in corporate America, were glass bubbles looking out on the vastness of a sprawling metropolitan skyline. But at the agency, this director’s office was deep in the interior of the building, shielded electronically and structurally to prevent spillage. The windowless walls were not barren. They did not look out upon a metropolitan skyline; but they did have a multitude of monitors that could reveal the vastness of the CIA operations throughout the world. At this time, only one monitor was illuminated, the mission brief was named Devil’s Hornet. The PowerPoints lead caption read:
The LORD thy God will send the hornet among them, until they that are left, and hide themselves from thee, be destroyed.
Deuteronomy 7.20
Vincent was not a religious man, did see the irony of the verse, for he was referred to as the Devil’s Hornet by at least two terrorist organizations. He listened without emotion to a plan to eliminate two of ISIL’s most prominent targets. Aahil Fahed, was the mastermind behind many of the world’s most recent terrorist strikes and the butcher Abdul Hafeez who of late chose a sword to dispatch his victims on the stage of the world wide web. Both these targets were thought to be together somewhere in the dusty streets of Tikrit. But with no specific intelligence, a drone strike was out of the question. They needed a smart bomb like no other. A bomb that would be delivered to the feet of the criminals and a bomb that no longer served a more valuable purpose. The opportunity to decline did not register to Vincent conscience. All he heard was duty and opportunity. The plan as outlined was simple it was based on two truths. The first, that Vincent had been extremely successful at eliminating targets as a sniper in the service and then again as agent for the CIA this is how he earned the label the Devil’s Hornet. The second truth is that his cover was blown. He was unwittingly photographed, in an act of heroism preventing the hijacking and likely destruction of a commercial jet, over the Indian Ocean. In this day of selfies and tweets the actionable life expectancy of an operative was capricious at best.
Where Angels Fear to Tread
On the flight to Tikrit Iraq, the surgeon introduced a ¼ kilo of binary compounds, a variant of HELIX (High Energy Liquid Explosive), into Vincent’s abdomen. And replaced a molar with a piezoelectric activator that would send a small charge at a selective frequency (80 hz), through Vincent’s body. All Vincent would need to do is bite. The charge itself would be hardly noticeable, but the detonator was keyed to this precise frequency and would initiate the HELIX explosion. It was simple, bite down and everyone in the room would be dead. They used the scars of existing wound to conceal the insertion point and a gel that instantly sutured the wound. The operational parameters were by far the fewest of any mission Vincent was ever assigned. He would disembark the jet at Tikrit southern airport. This airport was known to be infiltrated by IS operatives. He would be recognized. The word would spread quickly that the Devil’s Hornet, had surfaced and was within reach. Vincent would put up only moderate resistance, allowing himself to be captured and not killed. A gamble true, but if Fahed continued to play to form, Vincent’s beheading would be a huge recruitment tool, one Fahed wouldn’t pass up. And if by chance, he was not captured, then the HELIX would be removed and Vincent’s new tooth could remain and could prove useful if he ever found himself far from caffeine and in need of a jolt.
Winter in Tikrit was more like winter in DC than winter in Portland Maine. It was dry 40Ëšƒ. Vincent’s newly shaved neck itched but it was nice to be rid the heavy overcoat. It had been two years since he was clean shaven the beard starting growing out days after the video went viral on YouTube. It showed the grainy images of Vincent flying around the cramped cabin incapacitating two assailants, one with a lethal blow the larynx, the other a strangle hold that allowed the second man to eventually regain consciousness in the custody of Indian authorities.
Beyond the dust strewn runway and the absent amenities of Tikrit’s southern airport a number of men noticed a new mark, an obvious American. Vincent, creating an air of uncertainty, opened a travel brochure that he picked up at the counter inside. He listened to their argument, in Arabic, over who would take the American ‘for a ride’. The youngest of them presented the most persuasive argument claiming that he needed the practice. He came up to Vincent, dressed in white Adidas sneakers, torn jeans, a dirty red button up shirt and a pack of cigarettes in his breast pocket. He sported two caterpillar growths of hair over his lip; that he no doubt hoped would one day join. In broken English, he offered his taxi for a ride. Vincent followed the man who carried Vincent’s one piece of luggage through several side streets until they came to his taxi. It was a Vintage Toyota Corolla, with more rust holes than bullet holes through the car doors. He opened the door and tossed the luggage inside. Vincent sat down and explained he was staying at the Hotel at Saddam’s Palace. The boy’s eyebrows raised and he said the cost would be 230,000 Dinar. Vincent eyes turned cold and said 23,000 Dinar, which was roughly 20 dollars, to which the boy said, “Yes that’s what I meant.”
The drive along the Tigris to the palace was quite beautiful, if you could look past the dry desolation of the land, the upturned vehicles tossed about like matchsticks from long past IEDs, and the buildings partially demolished by years of gun and mortar fire, which was still home to a troubled people. Vincent never let himself think about the morality of what he did. He never argued the merits of US involvement. But would ISIL be active in Tikrit, indeed in Iraq, if it were not for the removal of Saddam Hussein. Passing the gates of the palace was like entering a theme park in the United States, wealthy, verdant and new. Fountains pumped water into the air in a display of opulence that was not exceeded anywhere else in the Middle East. Vincent tipped the boy generously who smiled and shook Vincent’s hand. Hopefully, that’s one kid that won’t carry an AK, Vincent thought.
As he pulled out his luggage he noticed the van that had followed them since the airport, slide slowly past the gate. They had taken the bait. Vincent, surveilled the security of the hotel and assessed it was too good to present him as an easy target. He went to his room, his stomach felt queasy no doubt from having to share its space with a cylindrical plastic pouch that was not unlike the material used in breast implants. He rested briefly listening to a haunting call to prayer from a distant minaret. How could so many people become so radicalized in the name of such a beautiful religion? He knew that many saw giving up their lives to kill the infidels as the path to martyrdom and this was the strength they tapped as the detonated the bombs. He wished he could find the same supposed serenity when he would detonate his. In this troubled way, Vincent drifted off to sleep, giving his hosts time to plan for his reception.
It was a new day in Tikrit but he was at the end of a very long day east coast time when he made his way down to the taxi stand in front of the hotel. The men here were, better dressed and their English markedly superior to the boy from the airport taxi stand. Vincent chose the oldest among them, a man hardened by the sun and probably by loss, over years of living in this active war zone. He chose the old man, because like him, they had both become dispensable. Vincent knew the likely abduction would come next. Vincent was rarely wrong.
It came, not surprisingly, less than five blocks from the gates of the palace. A low yield IED, exploded under the right front tire leaving both Vincent and the driver shell shocked. Vincent was dragged into the same white van from before. The old man was left to bleed and moan. Vincent remained semi-conscious aware of the speeding vehicle, sudden turns, and jarring bumps. He was aware of Arabic being spoken but through the fog he couldn’t translate it. He was aware of the tooth, the trigger. He saw the butt end of the AK but didn’t feel the pain it delivered.
He woke, naked, soaked, and kneeling. His hands tied behind his back and the rope tied to a rotted rafter in the ceiling of the dilapidated building. He became aware of four distinct male voices excited and speaking about him. His Arabic had returned and he learned they were waiting for the butcher and Fahed. It sounded like the plan would work flawlessly. One of his captors was already filming the scene, less the scimitar. But Vincent had no plan to wait for that. He labored to his feet and one of guards drove the butt end of an AK into the back of his knees driving him back down to the ground, Vincent fell against the rope and his 220 pounds of straining muscles shook the rafter.
“You wait for the Butcher.” Spoke the guard.
It wasn’t a long before Vincent heard the rumble of a heavy vehicle’s tires screech to a stop on the stone and gravel street outside the building. The excited voices spoke that Hafeez, The Butcher, had arrived. A short, balding, middle age man entered the room, only noteworthy for the 3 feet of glittering steel, with a precisely honed edge, which he adeptly wielded in mock strikes against Vincent’s neck. Vincent wondered if the other westerner saw this gaunt man’s face before he dawned his mask to slay them. The butcher held the blade against Vincent’s carotid ever so slightly drawing blood and said, "I will take your head for the world to see once Fahed has had a chance to question you."
The Butcher’s English was very, very good, posh in fact. Damned if he didn’t sound English Vincent calmly spoke, “Kensington right?”
The Butcher chuckled. “You are a pro. Eaton. I graduated cum laude with a degree economics. Now you are just trying to beguile me, but I will still take your head. Perhaps, I’ll start with this pretty little head here first.” He said pointing to Vincent’s crotch. That could improve our YouTube ratings. I can see the caption now, “The Hornet’s stinger falls off as the Butcher’s blade cuts cleanly through.”
“Or perhaps,” Vincent began, “One might read the butcher slays the Hornet in a battle of two warriors.”
“If you’re implying that I should set you free and arm you, then you are daft. I know what you are capable of. And you know what I am good at.”
Vincent went on, “Now how sporting can that be. I’ll be kneeling and you’ll swing your sword.”
“Yes, how delightfully your head will role.” The British had it right during the reign of Henry VIII. Do you know he had slain over 57,000 people! I have barely gotten started. And the broad swords used in Medieval England beheadings were often dull, or the executer clumsy, careless or too inept to complete the decapitation with a single blow. Why, I read one execution actually took 4 blows. I can assure you, however, that you will feel no pain. Your end will come quickly--painlessly. He leaned into Vincent, so closely that Vincent could smell the cardamom spice on the Butcher’s breath. It will be quick as long as stay still. Your head will be severed on the first lithe swing of my scimitar.
“That is comforting.” Vincent said. Although he had no plan to remain still. Vincent kept probing the Butcher with idyll banter and finally concluded there were five other men and that Fahed would be accompanied by a single body guard. Vincent rose at the arrival of the man and the guards permitted it, deferring now entirely to Fahed’s wishes and commands. Even the Butcher deference was palatable.
The moment of the transition of authority from the Butcher to the Fahed would be Vincent’s best opportunity to accomplish his goal of killing everyone in the room and perhaps saving himself. With one massive lunge and pull against the rope the rafter gave way.
The video aired that evening showing a naked, soaked, and kneeling Vincent followed almost immediately by a similar scene of a hooded man. The camera caught the arching swing of the scimitar as it cleanly decapitated the man under the hood. The part where the head rolled onto the floor near six other bodies would not be shown on the World Wide Web.
Vincent had his old life back.