“Plus, we must not forget that you don’t like Naples because you got mugged last week, Taradin. You!” Anwar’s laughter filled the tiny apartment.
“The renowned Taradin of Beirut held at gunpoint and robbed by petty thugs who pushed and shoved you while you did nothing but beg.”
Taradin controlled his anger, as he had for the past two weeks.
“We both know what is good about visiting Naples, Anwar.”
“What’s that?” Anwar asked, his eyebrows raised.
“That eventually we’re going to leave. It is a pigsty. It stinks. The air chokes you with the captured exhausts of its cars and the smoke of its factories and then they prey on everyone including each other, robbing, mugging, and shooting. I have never figured out why the Americans, who love their own comfort, would put so many of their people in this place. My family is safer in the Bekaa Valley, with only the Israeli Air Force to worry about, than they would be here.”
Anwar beamed.
“Oh, Taradin, you are never going to forgive them for the mugging. Besides, we know why the Americans are here. Their admirals are here and we can thank Allah for that. If they had kept Rota, Spain, we could never have gotten this close, for it is an isolated farming area. We would have been fingered within hours of arriving.
They vacated London, praise be to Allah. The British have too much experience with their own terrorists, the Irish Republican Army, for us to be able to target the Americans and avoid their MI-5 at the same time.”
“No, we are lucky they chose Naples to home port their leaders. The Americans have never allowed history to teach them lessons. They prefer to relearn them.” Anwar chuckled, then, changing the subject, continued.
“Time to go. Take Kayal, Taradin, and start for Gaeta. Let us hope our practice runs have been enough. Kayal’s Hizballah brother departed Rome an hour ago and will do his job about the same time as you.”
“It doesn’t take that long to drive to Gaeta, Anwar. Why leave now?” Taradin snapped.
“Traffic, Taradin,” Anwar replied in a patronizing voice.
“We’ve always done our practice runs at night when the natives were bunkered safely in their houses, or when those with common sense have evacuated Naples. It’s”—he looked at his watch—“six forty now and the workforce of this medieval city is already clogging the roads of the autopiste for your drive north. You need to be there by ten when the sun is setting. You’ll have to hurry.”
Anwar walked to the couch. Drawing back, he slapped Kayal with all his might. The man’s head jerked to the side as the sound of skin on skin reverberated within the small apartment. The youth never stopped chewing nor uttered a word as Anwar’s handprint appeared in scarlet on Kayal’s left cheek.
Anwar laughed, grabbing his stomach as his head tilted back.
“Stupid people. They all are, Taradin. Khat makes them immune to pain, to the world around them, even to their own comfort. To them, khat is all that is important.
The brain continues to send the word chew”—he waved his hands in a circle—“to the mouth regardless of what happens to the body.”
Taradin pushed Kayal off him.
“Fine, Anwar. For him it is his khat. For you, you have to beat someone. Now, quit hitting him. Every time you do he bounces against me and I have to push him back up. The question is how is he going to drive, drugged on the amount of khat you’ve been feeding him since this morning?”
“He will. Won’t you, Kayal?”
“Allah Alakbar!” Kayal muttered, spitting pieces of khat into Anwar’s face.
Anwar wiped the wet mixture from his face with his left hand as he drew his right back to hit the man again.
Taradin jumped up and grabbed his arm.
“Stop it, my friend. We need him tonight and with you slapping and beating him every few minutes to amuse yourself he won’t be in any condition to do it.”
“Maybe I should beat you instead, Taradin?” Anwar asked, shaking himself free from Taradin’s grip.
“Remember, Anwar, you may be the leader of this team, but even Hizballah makes mistakes. Do not make one with me. I’m not Kayal. Now, go and make some coffee for him,” he said, pointing to Kayal.
“Thanks to you he’s had too much khat.”
At the word khat, Kayal reached out to paw Taradin’s hand. Taradin pushed the hand away.
“No, Kayal. There is no more khat until we reach Gaeta.”
Anwar stormed off toward the kitchen muttering Arabic oaths under his breath. Taradin caught the words mother and camel dung. Taradin swallowed his pride. Tomorrow would be soon enough to revenge the insult.
Too much depended on each of them to begin fighting each other. Besides, Anwar was not an Islamic warrior.
Islam never condoned either violence or the infliction of pain on the innocent and unprotected.
It was hard to reconcile Islam with Anwar. The man was a sadist and Taradin hated as well as mistrusted him. Anwar boasted how he had been responsible for the successful interrogation of the American sailor snatched a week ago from Gaeta. It was true that without the information gained from the sailor they would never have known the schedule of the Sixth Fleet flagship, the USS La Sane. Neither would they have known that the commander of Sixth Fleet, Vice Admiral Gordon Cameron, was hosting a social gathering for his staff tonight at a popular bistro overlooking Gaeta.
It was true. Anwar had been successful in the interrogation, but he took too much pleasure in this unfortunate aspect of war. He continued even after he had the information they needed!
Taradin had seen the sailor’s body after the interrogation and hated the man he obeyed as the leader for this raid. He spit on the rug. Respect would never be given.
The sailor’s mutilated body rested on the bottom of Naples Harbor, held down by concrete blocks tied to his feet. He was dead before they dumped him early this morning. If he had not been, Taradin would have killed him as an act of mercy. He wondered briefly how many dead bodies swayed in the currents of Naples Harbor.
Anwar brought a tiny cup with thick, steaming Turkish coffee from the kitchen. Taradin took it from the reluctant Anwar and held it lightly against Kayal’s lips. He knew Anwar would have shoved the hot concoction into the drugged man’s mouth for the pleasure of watching the skin burn. Taradin was fed up with the constant bestiality. If possible, Anwar needed to accompany Kayal to paradise.
His last bullet would see to that tonight.
When Kayal finished sipping the strong coffee the two men forced the Yemeni to his feet and struggled down the stairs to the underground garage, where they wrestled him into the front passenger side of the dark blue Mercedes sedan.
“There!” huffed Anwar after he shut the door.
“Damn!
He’s heavy.”
“He’s a big man.”
“Yeah, he’s yours now.” Anwar smiled. “And what good is he going to be in this condition?”
“Don’t worry; Yemenis are resilient. Keep the khat away from him during the drive to Gaeta and by the time you arrive, he should be in that twilight zone of doing what he’s told without being sober enough to question it. Talk to him on the trip there and keep repeating what he’s to do so he doesn’t forget what it is.” Anwar reached into his pocket and gave an envelope to Taradin.
“Here is an American Navy identification card with Kayal’s photograph on it and this sheet of paper is what they will ask for at the gate. It authorizes the car to drive onto the pier.”
“Aiwa, ya effendi, but what does Kayal do when they ask him a question? He doesn’t speak English, you know.”
“Ah, my friend. You have such little faith.” Anwar handed a folded paper to Taradin.
“This is a medical slip written on a prescription sheet from the United States Navy Hospital forbidding Kayal from speaking because he has laryngitis. All he has to do is point at his throat and they will wave him through. Put this sheet of paper in the window of the car. The gate guard will see it. Give these two papers, an American military ID card and a Naples Hospital medical chit, to Kayal and make sure he understands that he is to show it to the gate guard as he drives onto the pier. Understand?”