PEACE PIPE - CHAPTER TWO

Character Build

Peter Elkins III - American Mercenary
Paul Connolly - Irish Mercenary
Mary Murphy -Irish Widow Woman
Sergeant Thompson - Mercenary Recruiter
Major Alistair Leigh - Tough Guys
Archie Andrews - African Mercenary

Rashid Al-Mannai - Jordanian Ambassador
Officer Windrush - MPD Patrolman
Jerri Neighbour - Freelance Journalist
Kolé Cutter - American President
J A Metcalfe (JAM) - CIA/UK Liaison
Horace Lime - SO11/CIA Liaison
Philip Dalton - British Assassin
Morris (MO) Schlick - Film Director
Nicola Schlick - Mo's Wife
Tse Lin Yan - Chinese Miliary Attaché
Victor Miles - Secure Armed Services
Abdul Miandad - Syrian Lawyer

2

Washington DC - August 07, 2013 - 04.00 hours

In America, the District of Columbia is better known as Washington DC, the federal capital. It was not the place to be on Wednesday, August 07 2013, assuming its half million inhabitants had any choice in the matter.

For Moslems, this was the final day of the feast of Ramadan, a time of prayer and fasting, made far more difficult on this, one of the hottest days of the year. Temperatures were threatening 100 degrees, combining with almost unbearable humidity, while occas-ional heavy and persistent rain provided little solace, soaking into sidewalks and filling up the drains.

At 04.00 on this particular morning, with the day not even started, air-conditioning would have been the deal breaker. Those attempting to sleep through the soaking heat were further tormented by the constant swish of tires on wet tarmac; cars on their way home after a night on the town, those on their way to a new day of labor, as well as those whose work had come to an end.

* * *

Traffic was already beginning to emerge on the wide thoroughfare of upper North Wisconsin Avenue, one of the main arteries leading through the centre of the triangle which comprises the main Metropolitan area of Washington DC.
One of the most impressive pieces of real estate in the avenue, boasting former trappings of Colonial architecture, the Jordanian embassy, detached from foreign missions around Dupont Circle and Massachusetts Avenue, was already lit up.

In the main conference room, senior envoys sat around a large table studying briefing notes before being joined by Rashid Al-Mannai, the Jordanian ambassador. All attention was on ‘Peace Pipe,’ the proposed new Middle East accord, to be ratified the following day. Within the next hour, envoys would leave for the Pentagon where they were due to meet senior diplomats and clarify any outstanding points.

* * *

Officer Windrush, representative of the Metropolitan Police Department, on guard outside the embassy building, was making full use of the cover offered under the large portico which comprised the entrance. One of the MPD’s patrol cars, never too far away, splashed to a quiet stop as a huge streak of lighting lit up the sky, immediately followed by a great crash of thunder. The passenger window retracted and a package was offered, accepted with grateful thanks by the man on duty. It contained welcome hot muffins purchased downtown and accompanied by a sealed cup of hot black coffee laced with an un-official splash of Jack Daniels.

* * *

Right opposite the embassy, at No. 5835 across the avenue, the front garret apartment was also filled with light. Jerri Neighbour was fulfilling a lesser part of her journalistic career, by putting the final touches to a book edit, as requested by a local publisher and now due for delivery. Daughter of famous CBS anchor, Dan Neighbour, she was not bothered by the TV and local weather warning that, if the rain seemed heavy now, the downpour would get a whole lot stormier before dawn.

* * *

As the city slowly came to life, the President himself had been awakened. Even for a workaholic like Kolé Cutter, this was a call beyond duty, signaling a pretty frantic day. His opening address at the State Department dinner, to welcome foreign dignitaries arriving for the big peace pow-wow the following day, had still to be tidied up.

If at all possible, the President wanted to find time to visit the distinguished film director and old friend, Morris (Mo) Schlick, recently presented with a life-time award for services to the cinema graphic industry. Currently in town on business, he was also and by pure coincidence, due to meet the Jordanian ambassador, Kolé Cutter’s fellow co-ordinator on the ‘Peace Pipe’ proposal. Everyone was due to have a very busy day but, before attempt-ing to see his friend, the President also faced the small question of a briefing with cabinet members, usually achieved each day while jogging around a secure local park set alongside the Potomac. Today the briefing would be earlier than usual.

For the next few days security would be paramount in the Metropolitan area. Every enforcement agency - other than the CIA, whose remit was driven internationally - would be involved, from the Secret Service, through to the FBI, the MPD and private security agencies too numerous to mention.

* * *

J A Metcalfe, CIA’s UK representative, together with his UK colleague, Det. Chief Superintendent Horace Lime of Scotland Yard’s SO11 division, neither of whom were remotely connected to the Peace Pipe activity, had spent a large part of the night at the Columbia Station nitery on 18th Street drinking untabulated rum punch and listening to wonderful Brazilian jazz before diving into their respective beds just after 04.00 hours.

The two men had decided to take advantage of this particular week; they had little to do but relax and share a mutual and enjoyable vacation in DC. For Lime, the visit was a one off, the first time he had been to the State Capital.

They were left with one day and one more meeting, scheduled for 09.00 am the follow-ing morning, before the Englishman flew back to London.

* * *

Philip Dalton qualified as a rather less welcome visitor to the state capital. A small, unhealthy looking individual, his principal feature was an ugly potbelly. A confirmed psychopath, and altogether different from the average human being, his talent for murder was limitless. He had spent the best part of his life in hiding, bid- ing his time. Although yet to be informed, his time had arrived. A Londoner, to his unapologetic accent, Dalton had rarely known anything but trouble and very soon he would have trouble enough. Having entered an air-conditioned cinema uptown to view some tame porno movies, he had fallen asleep and now the time was after four o’clock.

* * *

Downtown, around the corner from the White House, the super prestigious Hay-Adams hotel was looking after important guests who were occupying the Presidential Suite. Mr. and Mrs. Morris Schlick were tucked up in air-conditioned luxury. It was only approved guests of the President who were allowed to stay in this rather special private suite. Under the present stewardship, Schlick became a shoe-in. No problem at all.

* * *

Peter Elkins and Paul Connolly were also relaxed in what might be considered some-what less opulent accommodation. The toy soldiers had maintained their own counsel for the past week, attempting to anticipate every scenario to guarantee the success of their current mission. Following on from a short mercenary apprenticeship, they had learned that quality of preparation would ensure the biggest possible bonus.

Laid out on a side dresser, ready for the morning, were laundered cotton overalls, trop-ical army issue fatigues, trousers, singlets and heavy-duty boots, together with a compre-hensive street map of the DC area and a set of car keys. They intended to travel light.

* * *

The Chinese Military Attaché to the Lebanon, Tse Lin Yang, had arrived just 24 hours previously. A major problem was threatening to blow up in his face and that could not be tolerated. He was about to set new guidelines to ensure the success of a project which had little to do with the Republic of China. This day would mark the dénouement of his plans. They were designed to provide a massive injection into his personal pension, while also serving to destabilize the entire Middle East and create a perfect environment for Chinese involvement in the area, thus boosting his own, already considerable, influence.
* * *
One more unwelcome and temporary visitor to Washington DC had arrived from up-state New York in almost indecent haste. Victor Miles had earned a repugnant reputat- ion as one of the most notorious international criminal facilitators in the business. Moreover, his latest Chinese client, Lin Yang, had insisted they meet on this day. He was a real balls breaker. A few weeks earlier the Chinaman had gotten himself fucked up in the middle of nowhere and he had no option but to send a couple of his recent young recruits on a rescue mission. In fact, the same two toy soldiers he had commissioned for this job.

Victor Miles needed to be awake by 4.30 am. He had not set an alarm; he had one at-tached to his brain. At the precise time required, he switched on the bedside light, stood with practiced ease, padded quietly into the bathroom, stepped into the shower and switched the faucet to full force. The icy water careened over his head and body, but he felt no pleasure. Only a frightening look of anger, that same anger he had experienced when given the message from Lin Yang on the previous evening, belied his unease.
Miles had been offered a huge amount of cash, half of which he had already received, for a job due to be carried out in less than 10 hours; a job which no longer concerned him. He had already done his part. This was what made the present confrontation so fucking ridiculous. To meet with his client in the middle of DC now, in the very place where, in a few short hours this would all come down, represented an act of complete madness.

At this moment Miles concentrated on his body. For a 69 year old, he might well have been mistaken for a man half his age, the result of a dynamic health regime he had regulated with great discipline all of his life. Six foot seven inches tall and built like Gargantua, he carried 248 pounds of pure muscle. Other than a waistline that had thick-ened marginally over the years, little spoiled his appearance. Only his face, macerated into an unfavorable comparison with gargoyles, caused concern to most people.
Miles epitomized the genre of master criminal - a thoroughly odious example - having progressed at a steady rate, from childhood bully and petty extortionist, into illicit drug dealing, blackmail, and assassination.

As a graduate member of an allegedly superior group known as the Harvard Final Club, Miles left college and joined the American Armed Forces. This was after the faculty discov-ered him providing more wealthy members, of similar twisted morals, with prostitutes of all persuasions. His army service provided perfect grounding in the art of duplicity and, when returning to civilian life, he became the ringmaster for an organization that was re-sponsible for criminal activities at the echelon of politics and business. These were often at the behest of the CIA and like clandestine operations.

That Tse Lin Yang had summoned Miles to Washington on this day of all days was, at least, worrying. However, whatever the problem, he would deal with it.
* * *
Miles left his hotel with dawn about to break. The rain had become torrential, the sky a mass of low cloud. Looking to the south-west, he saw a weather helicopter approaching, rising slowly over a city about to experience one of the most explosive days in its history.
Arlington National Cemetery, across from the Pentagon in Washington DC., was a bizarre place to meet, particularly in the middle of a torrential thunderstorm. Anyone watching from a dis¬tance would have thought the pair ill matched; a small pale oriental, in a single-breasted rain-coat buttoned up to the neck, holding on, almost desperately, to an umbrella much larger than he needed, and a giant of a man who, though wearing a large oilskin himself, seemed impervious to the deluge. It fell, free rein, down his fear-some features, as if he had never left his earlier shower. The Chinaman sought refuge in the portico of a nearby mausoleum and, shaking out his umbrella, waited for the other man to join him under the cover offered.

Now, as Lin Yang spoke, Miles’s worst fears were confirmed. ‘You have left it too late. Al Mannai’s due at the State Department tomorrow to wrap it up.’ The Chinaman’s face had contorted with anger and he continued with considerable venom. ‘We cannot risk this under any circumstances. There will be no abduction. You must kill him.’
* * *
It had all started eight months earlier, in Beirut, Lebanon, where Lt. Colonel Abdul Miandad, a lawyer from Damascus, summoned Victor Miles to meet his client, Senior Military Attaché at the Chinese Legation in the Lebanon, Tse Lin Yang.
Lin Yang had enjoyed a brilliant career, one that had started in a tiny village just out- side Beijing. As a fresh-faced 18-year-old, appointed official Village Cadre during the ‘so-called’ students’ revolution in 1970, he had accused both his parents of political revisionism.

From here it had become a simple matter to incite his fellow villagers to viciously beat and hack them both to bloody pulps, finally resulting in their painful deaths.

This act of selfless national heroism attracted attention from the Chinese Comintern. Tse Lin Yang was invited to attend the prestigious Peking University where he was to graduate with honors in political science and diplomacy, specializing in covert operations. Thereafter, he enjoyed a long and duplicitous career, one not always pursued on behalf of his political masters.
Miandad, who himself had a murky past, told Victor Miles a bullshit story of American drug runners kidnapped in the Middle East, offered in exchange for the Jordanian Ambassador to Washing¬ton. Such a deal, he assured Miles, would result in a very big payday. It sounded too good to be true. You get what you pay for. Miles had no doubt this had to be much bigger.

The Jordanian Ambassador had become well known as a friend of Palestine. He had spent much time over previous years attempting to negotiate a lasting peace in this centre of Middle East friction, his early efforts dogged by Washington’s neo-con mafia. However, things appeared to have changed. For the past several years, a different, more progressive administration had taken over, causing many to think that things could only get better. In fact, things had slowed to a virtual standstill. The new President found himself literally hog-tied in both chambers of congress, constantly harassed and prevented from carrying out many of his more progressive programs. This continued to the point where the admin-istration spent most of its time vacillating, as though afraid to follow its own star.

In the meantime, the Israelis had also gotten themselves a new government; one closer to the centre, not so influenced by the religious right; one prepared to be more amenable to its Arab neighbors. This had happened while the Palestinians, having previously found themselves alienated by electing a militant group dedicated to the destruction of Israel, accepted that their policy represented one of self-destruction. Now, they had finally joined together with political rivals, becoming a single political entity which made it far more difficult for anyone to brand them extremists.

Miles considered the implications. Just supposing they had all started to work together to bring about a negotiated peace? In such a scenario, neither Israel nor the American government would want to talk about anything until a virtual fait accompli existed. This would leave someone like the Jordanian Ambassador, Rashid Al-Mannai, exposed. If the Chinese Military Attaché wanted him abducted, Miles needed to know why. He figured Miandad as little more than the postman. Maybe he had just come to mix messages.

In any case, the money was what counted; nothing to do with official Chinese interests in the Middle East or kidnapped drug runners. They were just being used as dupes, providing the cover. Nevertheless, Miles could see the big bucks. He agreed the deal. Al-Mannai was to be abducted.

* * *

Now, today, everything was to change. Miles could not believe his ears. Lin Yang wanted the man dead. It was ridiculous. His toy soldiers had already arrived in DC. They had met with Lin Yang’s lawyer go-between, Lt. Colonel Abdul Miandad, on several occasions. Already an important part of the abduction plan, he would also be prepar-ing to go. Attempting to turn the plan around now would be madness and lead to chaos.

Miles had chosen his men with deliberate care, men who were not run of the mill merc--enaries, willing to kill at a price. In any case, the last thing he wanted was to have the man killed. So far as Miles was concerned, his agenda had always differed from that of Lin Yang. From the moment this whole proposition had been put to him, he sensed far more money than was on the table at this time. Having abducted the ambassador, his intention had always been to sell him back to King Abdullah II after Lin Yang lost interest - a perfect hostage-for-money situation. With Al-Mannai assassinated, Miles would lose his lucrative add-on business and this could not be allowed to happen.

Miles tried hard to debunk his client’s decision. ‘Al Mannai won't be at that meeting tomorrow. We're pulling him out today. Everything’s arranged. It’s foolproof. Nothing can possibly go wrong.’ Lin Yang’s face remained impassive. He was not about to change his mind. For his part, Miles was exasperated. ‘Have you any idea…’

The giant American felt a sense of despair. His client did not know, did not want to know, how long an operation of this nature took to plan, neither of its degree of difficulty. He decided to give it one more try. ‘OK. How about we take him out, nice and quiet, exactly as planned and you don’t ever see him again.’

The Chinaman remained coldly unimpressed. He considered that Miles’s reasoning had ignored the effect that any mistakes might have on the success of his own private arms deal and the havoc Al Qaeda might create as a result. So long as Palestine remained out in the wilderness, they would have justification for their actions in the Muslim world. In any case, why did the man appear so keen to keep Al-Mannai alive? A bullet through the head would settle everything and be far easier to carry through. So why was the big man being so pedantic? All of a sudden it became obvious. After this had all been final-ized, Miles wanted to sell the ambassador back to the Arabs. Of course, it was money again.

The diminutive Attaché shook his head. ‘You’re right, Mr. Miles. This may not stop a peace deal going through eventually. However, it is now that we need to halt its progress. You must delay negotiations enough for our purpose.’ The rain ended as quickly as it began; Lin Yang closed his umbrella, shook out the rain, turned his back and started to walk away. Then, suddenly, he turned, his voice echoing back through the now silent graveyard, trees reduced to an occasional patter of water dripping from leaves.

‘How much more?’

It sounded like an afterthought, as if he had just made his mind up about something else. The men stared at each other, neither willing to say another word. Then, from the ensuing silence, Miles raised his hand - the fingers spread out meaningfully. Lin Yang shook his head uncomprehendingly. ‘Another five hundred thousand?’

Miles nearly managed a smirk, his lips twisting uncontrollably. He continued to hold his hand in the air while the Chinaman froze for several seconds before nodding slowly.

‘It would seem that we have an expensive deal, Mr. Miles. Take care of it, now!’

* * *

Returning to his hotel suite in a taxi, Miles reflected on the first time the two had met. The occasion had been eight months earlier in Beirut, the Lebanon.

Catskill Mountains - December 10, 2012 - Eight months earlier

Alone in his lodge, only a short drive from New York, in an escarpment overlooked by the Catskills, Victor Miles sat in an old rocker, the remnants of a Bolivar Belicosos cigar swamped in his huge hand. Sipping slowly at a large Jack Daniels, he stared, with glazed eyes, through a cut-glass goblet, at split images of car headlights snaking through the state highway below and bright stars filling the endless firmament above.

About to complete a diamond deal in Africa, which would eventually prove to be less profitable than hoped, he was now to consider another proposal - this time from the Lebanon. The recorded mail had arrived just a week before, on the day of Miles’s 69th birthday. The offer included a non-returnable twenty thousand dollar advance, plus all expenses - his only requirement, to come to Beirut and listen.

Lt. Colonel Abdul Miandad, the sender and apparent principal, would need to be checked in the usual thorough manner. Now in private practice as senior partner in a Beirut law firm, the man appeared to sanction everything. A full investigation would be carried out on the spot, through a useful source in the Lebanese Intelligence Bureau, a researcher due to retire - grateful to bolster his pension. Money paid for most things.

When the phone rang, Miles had been contemplating the need to replace diminishing personnel, the people he had relied upon over the years to do his bidding. Other than take briefs, collect the money and work out the full detail of planning, Victor Miles never became involved on a personal basis with any of the dirty work - a means of doing bus-iness which had kept him out of real trouble for most of his life. Now, as the phone con-tinued to ring, he refilled his glass, walked into a spacious study, lowered himself into a comfortable sofa and picked up the receiver.

The caller failed to introduce himself. ‘The parcel will be delivered to American Airways executive lounge tomorrow night.’

The report on Abdul Miandad arrived forty minutes before the Beirut flight took off from Kennedy. Also on the plane, back in economy, was an insignificant little man with a small potbelly - his ticket charged to one Mr. Victor Miles.

* * *

The Diplomatic Penthouse Suite of Beirut’s Inter-Continental Hotel represented an accommodation as comfortable as this sort of place got. Any problems Lt. Colonel Miandad might have presented did not include a lack of style. He arrived with exactitude: a neat man, with black shiny hair smoothed down over a high forehead, brown eyes rec-essed in his head. His nose, of the De Gaulle variety, was poised over a weak chin. The man’s hands were noticeably delicate and thin, the nails perfectly manicured. Wearing a dark blue single-breasted suit, pristine white cotton shirt, expensive crushed silk tie and alligator shoes, the lawyer had a dress sense which could only be described as immaculate.

For his part, Miles portrayed the opposite: his face stubbly with overnight growth, his cream linen suit crumpled, stained and loosely draped over an enormous frame.

Miandad seemed slightly disconcerted when, having placed his briefcase on an ornate coffee table and seated himself in a large armchair opposite the giant American, a small pale faced man walked through an alcove leading from the bedroom. He placed himself in front of the door and stood, motionless, ignoring both of them. No introductions had been offered nor, apparently, were any intended.

The lawyer, with an attention to detail combined with brevity, took only minutes to outline the problem: to obtain freedom for US drug runners, captured by Hizbollah fundamentalists while attempting to cross the Bekaa Valley. Already in captivity for six months, they were likely to stay for a considerably longer period unless helped. Although financial settlement might obtain freedom for the Americans, their captors wanted to trade. The prisoners were to be exchanged for someone; someone apparently worth a King’s ransom. Nothing need be rushed. Middle East time is measured as that of a camel passing through the desert. With the package agreed and a delivery process established, Miles’s payment would be an impressive round sum in cash - one million dollars, plus the usual expenses. The Lt. Colonel had an exchange in mind, someone who had already caused a certain degree of embarrassment to the West. This would not represent a major problem.

For his part, Victor Miles listened without interruption. Now, when it was obvious the lawyer awaited a response, he remained motionless, his eyes partially hooded like a cobra, studying the other man with an intensity of concentration.

Miles silence produced exactly the required reaction. Beads of perspiration began to form on Miandad’s hairline. Finally, after what seemed an interminable lapse of time, the American spoke, his voice a low growl. ‘And who is this man who might be worth a King' ransom?’

Miandad paused, uncertain whether he should release such information at this early stage. On the other hand, this huge intimidating American seemed used to nothing less than blind obedience. He was now left to wonder if Miles might, for some reason, choose not to get involved. As he worried about this, he remembered the insistence of Tse Lin Yang, his employer, when briefing him on the job: ‘Victor Miles is the man for this project. You must retain him at all costs.’ The lawyer decided that to an¬swer the question would, therefore, be appropriate.

‘Have you heard of a high ranking diplomat by the name of Rashid Al-Mannai?’

Miles’s face twisted with incredulity. ‘The Jordanian Ambassador to Washington?’ The words came out like escaping steam. ‘You have a plan to lift him?’ Abdul Miandad sighed as his tensions eased; thanks to Allah, the man had finally shown an interest.

He shook his head. ‘No, we don't have a plan, but we’re working to connect with a weak link in the embassy. Once we’ve done this, the rest should be easy.’

‘Sex or drugs?’ Miles’s voice had suddenly gone very quiet.

‘Both.’

Miandad, now eager to reply, encouraged that Miles had caught on quickly, blurted out the rest. ‘A junior envoy - just joined the Washington staff. He’s related to Al Mannai. He fell in love with hash at college. More to the point, he favors little boys.’

Miles pursed the skin around his mouth and looked thoughtful before the next whispered question.
‘How do you propose to connect him with his favorite toys?’

The lawyer began to sense the conversation going his way; he would be able to handle the great Victor Miles after all. His conclusion, a temporary source of comfort, would shortly prove a catastrophic blunder.

‘Mohammed Al-Mannai is a prominent lawyer in Amman. He is also Rashid Al-Mannai’s uncle and friend of the junior envoy's father. Early next year his company is sponsoring an International Law Conference in Beirut on aspects of the judi¬ciary as may be ap¬plied within the Middle East.’ Miles interrupted with growing signs of impatience.

‘And the name of this junior envoy?’

Again, Miandad hesitated. The notion of this being well beyond his brief was quickly dismissed. ‘His real name is Aziz Alludahiij, but he is known by everyone as Alluda.’ Miles nodded, his eyes almost closed as the lawyer droned on. ‘A question involving the original legality of Palestine annexation will be put to an international committee. Al-Mannai’s uncle will chair the meeting but independent diplomatic presence is required to convey summaries back to the US government and representatives in the Senate. The ideal source of Arab representation will come from one or other of our Washington embassies. Jordan would be perfect.’

Miles seemed deep in thought. At least he had started to pay attention. Encouraged, the lawyer pressed on. ‘Alluda studied the subject at university. He became the obvious choice. There will be nothing easier than to arrange a pleasing connection on his arrival.’ Miandad ended with a note of triumph. ‘Achieve this and the exchange becomes simple.’

Miles opened his cobra-like eyes. They were black and murderous. Thick bloody veins leading to the pupils seemed about to burst. His mouth spread in a thin line across his face; even without a word spoken, Miandad felt Miles’s raw anger. Fleeting triumph withered back to earlier tension - but now much worse. The perspiration on his hairline ran freely down his neck, softening the pristine collar of his shirt. The American’s first words, full of venom and hatred, confirmed the lawyer's earlier dormant fears.

‘If you worked for me, and thank God you don't, I’d have you hung from a meat skewer by your anus. You chose to tell me everything and yet you have told me nothing!’

Miles slid forward, fixing Miandad with a compulsive hypnotic gaze. Reaching into a leather briefcase beside him, he retrieved an aerial map of the Bekaa Valley, placing it on the table. ‘Now, show me where these drug runners are being kept.’

From the corner of his eye, Miandad saw the small man, who had not been introduced, approaching from his station by the door. The lawyer, stricken with panic, tried to concentrate on the map, trying hard to believe what he was about to say, the sweat running into his eyes. ‘There,’ he whispered, pointing to a small village in the centre of the map. ‘This is the place. This is where they are.’

Miles leaned forward. ‘Where?’

Miandad continued to jab desperately at his chosen place on the map. ‘There!’ An ominous silence preceded a glittering silvery object flashing past his terrified eyes. His finger had been pointing at the map; now, suddenly, it was rolling over the carpet while the rest of his hand was gripped in a strange numbness.

Miandad looked up in horror. The chopper, honed to razor sharpness, was already being cleaned by Potbelly, looking on dispassionately from above. He wiped the offending object on a handkerchief produced from his breast pocket, folded the hand-made weapon into its leather holster under his jacket and stepped back with a calm precision to his previous position by the door.

Miles, shaking his head with contempt, continued his assault. ‘You speak of drug traffic-kers - an irrelevance. You told me of a king's ransom, but nothing of the King, in this case, Rashid Al-Mannai. You described some insignificant characters and the semblance of a plot. What you have neglected to tell me is who wants Ambassador Al-Mannai and what, at this moment, makes him so goddam important?’

Miles reached out, clasped the man's collar in his massive fist and lifted him off the floor. Without releasing his victim, the giant American stood and walked across the room, util-izing his free hand to pour a large whisky from the nearby decanter. Returning to his seat, he dumped the quaking lump of flesh onto the carpet, lowered himself back into the arm-chair and took a sip of the smooth malt liquor.

The lawyer sprawled on the floor, now in a thorough state of dishabille, looking up at the man towering above him. ‘Now, Lt. Colonel Miandad, you little prick, you will answer some real questions.’ Miles's voice rammed like a spear of ice into Miandad's brain. He nod¬ded, his eyes glazed , as if hypnotized by this monster. ‘You’re not even Lebanese but you got close to General Aoun during the civil war, before the Syrians forced him to resign.’ Miles continued. ‘You disappeared back to Damascus for a while and when you got back, you started up your law firm again with some big accounts. Am I right?’

Miles leaned forward, removing a folded handkerchief from the lawyer’s pocket, holding the clean linen square out to him. Miandad flinched, grazing his head on the wrought iron coffee table, before realizing Miles had actually offered him some help, something to stem the blood dripping freely from his hand.

‘So, now, maybe you’d like to tell me who wants Al-Mannai?’ The lawyer shuddered. It was not so much the size of this man, or even his strength - more his malignant barbarism, like dealing with the devil.

Miandad took the handkerchief and, still fighting for breath, covered the stump of his finger, acknowledging an equal mixture of anger and fear. ‘Tse Lin Yang, Senior Military Attaché at the Chinese embassy. He...’ Miandad almost choked. ‘He’s my client.’

Miles exhaled a deep bellow of a laugh before leaning back and closing his eyes again. So, the military attaché at the Chinese embassy had an interest in freeing a pair of cheap American drug traffickers from Hizbollah. He laughed again, more loudly this time. No more questions were necessary for the moment. In any case, Miandad had been an open book long before Miles arrived in Beirut; his life history read on the flight across.

During the interview, Miles had become aware of the man’s duplicitousness. The lawyer had been happy to lie and to implicate people to support his assertions but, most horrendous by far, he was a man prepared to expose his own client. Ultimately, it would make him expendable. However, for the moment, this brought him right back to Tse Lin Yang.

Checking his watch, Miles spoke softly and with finality. ‘Tell your client I will be here until midday to¬morrow. This will represent the limit of his financial retainer. If he wishes to discuss business, I will be available up to this time.’ Abdul Miandad pulled himself up, his head spinning. The blood was now beginning to drain from his face. Without acknowledging his tormentor he started to leave. The American kicked his dismembered finger towards the door.
The small faceless man retrieved the offending object, with the hint of a smile on his lips, and handed it to Miandad, who felt physically sick. Staggering slightly, he turned and left the room. Miles glanced at the phone which he figured would ring in around thirty minutes - an analysis which proved correct. Lin Yang would arrive at 10 am the next morning.

* * *

Wearing a light silk shantung suit with a jacket fashioned in single buttoning to the neck, the Senior Chinese Military Attaché to Beirut might have been described as tiny. However, his presence in the room had little to do with his size, looks, or even personality. He care-fully glanced at the pot-bellied man who, as before, moved behind him and now stood menacingly in front of the door. ‘Who is he?’ The question, directed at the American, carried no implications other than a faint curiosity. Miles gestured towards the couch. Lin Yang ignored the invitation. Instead, he continued to stare at the other man. Miles grinned with malicious venom, lowering himself into one of the soft armchairs.

‘You mustn’t worry about him.’

Lin Yang shook his head with a complete lack of concern. ‘I am not in the least worried, Mr. Miles, just impressed.’ The Chinaman turned his head away and walked to a picture window providing a panoramic view of the city. Hands clasped behind his back, he gazed out at the dev¬astation from the Israeli invasion four years before, and still plain to see, huge lifting cranes silhouetted against the skyline.

‘You know, Mr. Miles, this once had a reputation as the most powerful city in the Middle East; a city which feared nothing and no-one. Beirut will become a symbol of the future, even without reference to its previous historic charm, with eyes only on profit derived from such an evolution. Who would think this possible?’

He turned to Miles, who continued in the same manner. ‘The answer to your riddle is easy for those who worship Mammon or live by the sword, but there are other factors. Remember Beirut as a city with the sexual diversity of Bangkok and the aesthetic pleasures of Paris.’ He grimaced. ‘To enjoy such things, the devil requires that which is due.’

Lin Yang turned back to the window. ‘There is a possibility we will both succeed in providing ourselves with diversity and pleasure, not to mention a considerable profit, Mr. Miles,’ he said quietly.

The American threw back his head and roared a deep, malevolent laugh. Like many before him, the Chinaman qualified as just another senior government official in the world who had discovered easy ways to take advantage of his position. He leaned forward, his voice again diminished. ‘Then, for sure, it is the devil who will ride at our side!’

Lin Yang had also drawn closer. ‘Perhaps you are right. Perhaps today, only the devil will do.’ He frowned. ‘You find difficulty in accepting as true our desire to help hostages of a friendly nation?’

Miles, still seated, found Lin Yang's proximity uncomfortable. It was a means of intimidation the American would often inflict upon others. He shook his head and tried to concentrate. Failure to discover Lin Yang's real purpose might well prove expensive at a later date. For sure, deliberately fucking with him would not be tolerated.

‘The abduction of these dregs is plainly a subterfuge for removing Rashid Al-Mannai from his Washington lair; neither anything to do with the other, but a deceit which, for some obscure reason, you prefer to maintain.’ The gambit worked. Lin Yang's eyes flickered.

‘Why would we wish to do this?’

Miles knew it would be essential to find the truth. Nevertheless, he recognized the difficulty of second-guessing this man. He reached into his jacket, removed a note pad, which he opened with care, and consulted the empty page concealed in his huge hand, aware he needed to get the answers right. His mind raced with all sorts of possibilities. Lin Yang qualified as a glorified arms dealer who had arrived in Beirut with the growth of funda-mentalism. Middle East countries, beginning to panic, were strengthen¬ing armies as wellas weapon arsenals. More recently people in a number of countries had rebelled against unjust rule. A few despots had been driven out, but - so what - what had changed for the better? Over the years, Lin Yang had profited more than most and now an¬other big deal seemed to be on the table, one with the apparent requirement to abduct Rashid Al Mannai, but why? Who did they want in exchange and when did they want the event to take place? In any case, who was the client? What had Lin Yang promised? Two years earlier, Osama Bin Laden had been snuffed out by American Seals. Was this, in some weird way, related?
Rashid Al-Mannai, Jordan's Washington Ambassador, was the target, but Jordan did not need a Lin Yang. Everyone was sure they were working on a peace deal involving the Palestine territories. Reported by Time Magazine, it must be so, even if it was no more than a strong rumor.

Peace was something which might pose serious problems for Lin Yang. Removing a key peace-maker might be appropriate. America was finally talking to Iran. A more rational State Department approach, deviating markedly from the previous administration, had brought everyone into line.

Miles thought of the Miandad connection and of the continuing problems relating to the Syrian embargo. Assad might have been beefing up a bid for leadership in the Arab world but had encountered big trouble himself. He looked up.
‘Jordan is under a new kind of pressure today. They’re desperate for the status quo to be restored. Israel alienated everyone in the region, but, at last, they might be prepared to see sense. America behaves less like the worlds stumblebum since it finally elected an intelligent leader and, with Bin Laden gone, the Ayatollahs also seem to be coming to their senses at last.’ Lin Yang remained imperturbable, while Miles’s growing confidence allowed him to continue.

‘Currently Al Qaeda is pretty much leaderless and weaker than they’ve been for some time. The new CEO is gonna have to prove himself. What they need are some decent weapons, otherwise they’re toothless.’ He grinned. ‘A big potential customer, right?’ Miles sensed he had struck a chord and allowed himself a chuckle. ‘And, while this has been going on, Rashid Al-Mannai has been welcomed as a Middle East statesman. Kolé Cutter, about to take his second term at the Presidency, will make life a whole lot easier. More recently they’ve been working on a mandated reconciliation, trying to put Arabs and Jews together, damping down on arms trade potential - in effect, killing your market. In other words, he's a total pain in the ass!’ The American pointed a long thick finger. ‘You want to crank up the prospects again with the troublemakers. But this is not about conventional weapons any more, is it?’

Miles’s final jab of intuition finally paid off. Lin Yang flinched, turned on his heel and returned to the picture window, while the American, sensing they had come to a bridge only needing to be crossed, walked to the sideboard, poured himself another drink and swallowed a slug which barely touched the sides. He was elated enough to offer his guest a share of the bottle. The arms dealer shook his head, his back rigid. Miles determined to sit the thing out. He didn’t have long to wait. Lin Yang's body relaxed. He faced the American, a smile on his moon-like face.

‘Welcome to Beirut, Mr. Miles,’ he said. ‘I knew that you were our man!’ A tiny hand thrust into the giant's massive fist. They had a deal. Miles had a target: Rashid Al-Mannai Jordanian Ambassador to Washington.

The first thing they needed to do to start everything in motion was set a trap for the young envoy, Aziz Alludahiij, the man they called Alluda. From what he had heard, the problem didn’t sound too difficult.

Washington DC - August 07, 2013 - 05.00

Following his visit to the cemetery, the meeting with Lin Yang and the almost impossible task of finding answers that would satisfy the new brief, Miles ordered breakfast and lit up a Bolivar Belicosos cigar and phony gas log fire in his lounge suite. Despite the hour, he poured himself a large whisky before considering the dilemma. Throughout the negotiations, he had made sure not to implicate himself in any way.

As far as Lin Yang was concerned, the peace settlement, now only a day away, repre-sented far too big a risk to take. For sure, Rashid Al Mannai had proved himself too efficient for his own good and, thus, signed his own death warrant with due effect. The only two men knowing of Miles’s involvement were Lin Yang and Miandad. Witnesses, particularly those who owed no allegiance, would always pose a threat.

Miles made a mental note to bear this in mind.
The young men he had decided to use for the abduction did not convert to murderers. Certainly they had built a healthy body count on previous jobs, but that was to save their own skins. Since depriving him of a sizeable portion of diamonds they had taken a large slice themselves. At first, he figured that they would be attracted for different reasons than most of the hoodlums he employed. They had listened to his original proposition and had been drawn in by the idea of a vacation in America after involvement in some-thing fairly harmless and carefully planned - no one would get hurt. Since then they had gotten real trouble themselves, having lost their villa and with the law in hot pursuit. Yes, now they needed money, but Miles knew, this would not extend to murder. He, of course, drew no such distinctions between life and death; he just knew to be ready for all contingencies. Over the years he had learned the value of back up. In this case, there was now no doubt, a new more deadly team might be required.

Philip Dalton was his first ace, a lone killer waiting to do whatever was needed. However, even he would not be an automatic guarantee against failure. In any case, if the shit really hit the fan, Miles would need a second wave ready and waiting. That would be his next job.

One thing was certain - if he got everything right and stopped Al-Mannai in his tracks, there would be no need to negotiate a hostage deal.
Lin Yang would hand over another half million and Miles would make sure he collected most of it up front. There would be no arguments! As he stared into the flames, warming the drink in his hands, a devilish new plan had begun to formulate in his head, one that would simplify everything no end.

After an hour long exercise that included sixty full press-ups, his daily routine for over fifty years - Miles devoured a double helping of fried eggs, crispy bacon, pancakes, maple syrup and several cups of thick black coffee, followed by a few short hours working the phones. Now, as if by miracle, all the answers were in place.