Hell Dawn. Don Pendleton

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      CHAPTER SEVEN

      “Just think. Within days, we could have it. And it would give us the power necessary to get revenge on the United States for daring to desecrate our lands with its troops. It’s a like a gift from almighty God Himself.”

      “Perhaps,” Ahmed Quissad said, unimpressed.

      The former Iraqi soldier stood and crossed the room with long strides until he reached a pane of one-way glass. Stretching the length of one wall, the glass looked down upon a crowded nightclub located in one of Prague’s busier tourist districts. Quissad watched as men and women danced, drank and caroused. He found himself alternately fascinated and disgusted by their behavior, grinding against one another, sweating like animals, succumbing to decadent abandon. Though muffled by layers of soundproofing, Quissad still heard the thumping of industrial dance music as it reverberated through the nightclub below.

      Animals and nothing more, he thought. Reflected in the glass, he saw his lieutenant—Tariq Khan—standing behind him, staring at his back. Apparently the little man wanted a reply. Quissad waited, knowing that the heavy silence, and the man’s sickening need for praise, would cause him to become restless.

      “It is good news, yes?”

      Quissad took a drag from his cigarette, shrugged. “Perhaps. What does our friend want for this piece of technology?”

      “It’s a disk, one containing a virulent program—”

      “Yes, yes. We’ve been over that before,” Quissad said. “Answer my question. What does our newfound friend want for his discovery?”

      “One hundred million—U.S. dollars.”

      Quissad turned and pinned the other man under his gaze. “One hundred million? For a diskette the size of a business card? Surely you must be joking.”

      Khan shook his head. “Not at all. And, with all due respect, I think it’s a bargain.”

      “And I think you’re very generous with my money.”

      “It will sell for five times that much. Perhaps more.”

      Quissad shrugged again, turned back to the one-way window. He watched the club patrons as they continued their rapturous gyrations on the dance floor. “You have a buyer?”

      “Yes. And I can get us more, if you’d like.”

      “I’d like.”

      Khan straightened his posture, smiled. “Consider it done.” He backed away to the door.

      Quissad watched his reflection in the glass, but didn’t turn and directly acknowledge his departure. He’d learned a long time ago that ignoring others only made them want to please you more. Khan, a former intelligence officer with Saddam Hussein’s government, was no exception. Though he boasted an impressive array of underworld contacts and provided invaluable information almost daily, his need to please drained Quissad. Quissad made sure those working for him got very little in the way of acknowledgment. If he’d learned anything from the deposed dictator, it was to control others through fear and uncertainty. A man who found himself on uncertain ground had little time to plot against you, not when he was worried about his own fate.

      The small man exited, shutting the door softly behind him. Quissad watched the dance floor a few minutes longer. He fixed his gaze on a leggy brunette, her eyes closed, pelvis gyrating in tandem with the pounding rhythms. For a moment his mind toyed with the notion of those same hips grinding hard against his own, accompanied by sweetly satisfied groans filling his ears. He’d seen her in the club twice during the past two weeks and found himself struck by her beauty. She’d made eye contact with him both times, rousing his suspicions. He was, after all, a man on the run. He didn’t want to betray himself by involving himself with a strange woman who might also be an undercover agent. No, he’d come much too far to take such chances. Still, she intrigued him in a way he found almost intoxicating. He loved the hunt a great deal, but it was the kill that he lived for.

      He made his way to a brown leather sofa and fell heavily into it. His jacket popped open, revealing the SIG-Sauer P-226 holstered in a shoulder rig. He liked the gun, and it made him feel safe. A glance at a bank of monitors on a nearby wall told him that his guards were posted outside his door, ready to stop any interlopers dead in their tracks.

      He was secure and alone, and it gave him time to think about how he’d gotten to this point. He’d been a commander with Fedayeen Saddam, the former dictator’s elite army, before America had invaded his homeland. During the initial days of the invasion, he’d welcomed the challenge, been all too happy to ply his bloody skills against American soldiers. He’d even taken it a step further, occasionally killing Iraqi citizens and making it appear that they’d died at the hands of Americans. Yes, he’d fought like a man possessed. It wasn’t so much a loyalty to Iraq’s ruler, or to his homeland. Quissad had just needed the release. He’d spent a good deal of his time feeling like a fighter jet that СКАЧАТЬ