I told you to do that but you didn’t!
His father’s voice, sounding now in his head, as it did sometimes over the years. When he’d heard the old man had collapsed of a fatal stroke five years before, he’d rejoiced and gone to his favorite pub in London and bought everyone there pints of Guinness.
Zahir had always been different, unique, that’s what his mother always told him, touching him, kissing him, praising him while his father looked on, disgust on his face.
He remembered he’d done his best to impress the old man, with his gray beard and mustache, his heavy jowls and his gap-toothed smile that wasn’t a smile at all, more a smirk, recognition that he was the only one in this household that was important, the only one with the power and that was because he had money, lots of it, and he ruled. “My darling, you are unique, you will do great things.” His mother, his beautiful fragile mother, who’d died when he was only eight years old.
Since he was the fourth son, he always knew he was worth less than spit to his father. And when he was eighteen, he realized his mother had been right. He was unique. He was chosen. God had given him a gift. He was clever, more clever and shrewd than his crude, peasant elder brothers, more cunning and more sly than his weak, whimpering sisters. Certainly more brilliant than his venal, grasping father, with his love of money and custom planes. Was he more astute than even his quiet, beautiful British mother, who’d given up her world to come live in the pit of Hell? He didn’t know. Sometimes he’d suspected she could have ruled the world, if only she’d been given the chance. He found himself thanking her again, as he had so many times throughout his life. She’d taught him perfect English, since he was, after all, an English citizen, and taught him pride and freedom. He’d joined the coalition forces, knowing, somehow, it was where he belonged. They trained him, they taught him to kill, to blow up people, to shoot from a distance. With his gift, they soon made him a perfect killing machine.
He was unique, and now he knew what it all meant.
It didn’t take long to develop a reputation. And with it came the money.
It never ceased to amaze him how many people wanted other people dead. And how rich he could get taking care of their problems for them.
And now this, surely the pinnacle of his life’s work. He had to admit he was still amazed at the complexity of Rahbar and Hadawi’s plan. So many moving parts, all the pieces having to dovetail at exactly the right time. He wondered how many more men in Iran wanted to lay waste to the world, consequences be damned. Centuries-deep hatred made them blind and deaf to all but death to their enemies.
That nutter Iranian colonel Rahbar had texted him that the gold coin Zahir had sent the month before had been turned over to his hand-picked scientist, brilliant and trustworthy. He was loyal to Rahbar. The Iranian scientist was in awe of Matthew’s genius, the way he’d combined certain elements, deleted and adjusting others to produce a payload to cause extraordinary damage. And the formula was really quite simple, but his genius in imagining this work of art had left him in awe.
And the colonel had laughed, said the stage was set and the Americans were doubtless scrambling around, unsure what to do, everyone on edge and just wait. Just wait. And the timing was perfect. As planned, the president of the United States had left Geneva in a huff aboard Air Force One to return to Washington.