Killer Instinct (Instinct #2)(65)

The Mudir was a voracious reader. He’d read Darwin and understood the nature of survival. Adapt or die.

He’d read Adam Smith, too. He knew that one of the great ironies about Islamic terrorism aimed against the West was how beholden it was to the tenets of capitalism. When the demand for suicide bombers exceeds the supply, changes have to be made. And no matter how much ISIS recruited, no matter how vigilant its efforts, the demand was always destined to exceed the supply. Especially in America.

Martyrs were truly a dying breed.

Once more, the Mudir took the men through their positions in the train station, emphasizing their exit strategy as much as everything else they needed to remember. The only other change beyond the timing was that he himself would be joining them in the massacre. The Mudir wanted even more casualties. Even more suffering.

For this final meeting before the attack, he had arrived early, before any of the twelve. He had placed burner phones on each of their chairs assembled around his table. He’d also turned off the air-conditioning. Heat and sweat force the mind to focus.

The Mudir hadn’t read that anywhere. He had lived it. Especially during his years in Islamabad. In the capital of Pakistan was where the Mudir had learned to focus. It was there that he had tried to get a message to Bin Laden. Bin Laden’s trusted courier had been compromised, his pseudonym surrendered to an interrogator at Guantánamo Bay.

But the Mudir’s message was never received. Two weeks later, Bin Laden was dead.

“Does everyone understand what their job is?” he asked the twelve, their faces shiny and dripping. The basement now felt like a sauna, but the men knew better than to wipe the sweat from their brows. Their only focus was the Mudir.

Above them were imams who had no idea what the Mudir was planning. They were so busy preaching peace and assimilation. They didn’t see the West as a threat.

They were fools, thought the Mudir.

He dismissed the twelve with a final reminder to keep their burner phones close at hand. The call would come within the next day or two, but no later. They needed to be ready, weapons and ammunition packed.

“There can be no mistakes. There can be no loose ends,” he warned them.

Again, the Mudir had chosen his words very carefully. The difference this time was the audience. It now included himself. There was something he needed to do, a piece of unfinished business. This was his own reminder.

There can be no mistakes. There can be no loose ends.

The Mudir had a very important appointment to keep.





CHAPTER 92


THE CROWDED restaurant was intentional. She wouldn’t feel threatened. Not at first.

He arrived early and asked for a table in the corner but still with a view of the door. The Mudir wanted to see her when she arrived. He was sure he’d know in an instant, the first moment their eyes met, whether or not she could do what he needed her to do.

Only he was wrong. When she arrived, that first instant he saw her, he still didn’t know.

All Sadira Yavari gave the Mudir was a look of recognition. Nothing more. She held his gaze the entire time she walked toward him and sat down, but again her eyes revealed nothing.

On second thought, it occurred to the Mudir, maybe this was exactly what he wanted. Could she be even more like him than he’d realized? Capable of giving nothing away, no signal or tip of the hand, until it was too late?

Sun Tzu. The element of surprise will always be your greatest weapon. The Mudir kept a copy of The Art of War by his bedside. He’d read it more times than he had the Koran.

“Do you know why you’re here?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Should I?”

The Mudir waited a few seconds, continuing to stare. No, you shouldn’t know. Otherwise, I’ve been careless, and that’s one thing I never am. He folded his arms on the table, leaning forward. “How do you know Dr. Dylan Reinhart?”

Sadira’s eyes collapsed to a squint as she put it together. Her. Reinhart. Outside the courthouse. “You’ve been following me?”

“For good reason, apparently.”

“We both had jury duty,” she said.

“No. You had jury duty. What he had was the need to meet you.”

“Why?”

“You tell me,” he said. “He’s CIA. Or at least he used to be.”

The Mudir studied Sadira in that moment more intensely than he’d ever studied anyone. It would’ve been near impossible for her to fake not knowing that Reinhart had been CIA. There were simply too many muscles around the eyes and mouth to control all at once.

No, this was pure reflex. Her expression. The way her head jolted back. He was convinced she didn’t know.

“Are you sure?” she asked.

“Positive.”

“Is that why you were following me? Because you knew Reinhart would try to make contact?”

“I was following you because I still don’t completely trust you.”

“There isn’t a person on this planet that I trust completely,” said Sadira. “I suspect you’re no different.”

She was right, and the Mudir let her know it with a smile. “Let’s just say I don’t trust you enough for what you need to do,” he said.

“Which is what?”

“You need to kill Dylan Reinhart,” said the Mudir.