The Enemy Within

CHAPTER 7 FALSE COLORS

Walker’s Landing was a tiny Virginia hamlet nestled against the southern bank of the James River roughly two and a half hoors south of Washington, D.C., and west of Richmond. Surrounded by tangled woods, gloomy swamps, and small, rundown farms, it was little more than a cluster of houses and stores cantered around Route 250, a two-lane blacktop highway that crossed the river.

Sefer Halovic peered through the dirty windshield of his Buick LeSabre and nodded in satisfaction. He’d been guided to this part of Virginia by pamphlets carefully collected by Yassine and other Iranian agents. Walker’s Landing seemed perfect for his purposes. Isolated, confined, and impoverished, the place appeared a likely breeding ground for the narrow minds and festering hatreds he sought. Country villages had produced some of the most savage killers in the Bosnian war. He saw no reason why it should be any different here.

He pulled off the main road and into a gravel motel parking lot at the southern end of town. A row of ten dilapidated cinder-block bungalows surrounded the parking lot. Each had been divided into two motel rooms. A car and an old pickup were parked out in front of two of the bungalows. The rest appeared unoccupied. The building closest to the highway had a sign in one of its unwashed windows identifying it as an office.

Halovic stepped out of his car and into the sticky warmth of a late summer afternoon. His nose wrinkled in disgust. From the smell and the flies buzzing around his head, he guessed that the owners of the StarBrite Motel rarely bothered to have their trash removed. Or perhaps they simply could not afford it, he thought coldly, eyeing the deserted parking lot again.

The contrast between this place and the tidy suburban communities he’d grown used to seeing around Washington was striking. It was a reminder to him that America’s elites built their fortunes on the backs of the poor, both abroad and here in their own land.

The StarBrite Motel’s office was no cleaner or fancier inside than its exterior suggested. Dust leered a rack of sunfaded tourist brochures and local maps near the rusting screen door. Flies circled lazily around the room. The smell of fried food and stale beer hung in the air.

Halovic let the screen door spring closed behind him and walked up to the deserted front desk. The sound of a television filtered out through an open door behind the desk. From the muted crowd noises he heard, he assumed the set was tuned to one of the mass sporting events which seemed to preoccupy so many Americans. A baseball game, perhaps?

He stood waiting for a moment, listening, and then cleared his throat.

“Excuse me, please? Is anybody there?”

Halovic was proud of his assumed German accent. Together with his own native speech patterns, simply substituting “I” for “th” and “v” for “w” made his words decidedly Teutonic. The accent lent credence to his new alias as Karl Gruning, a German postgraduate student on an extended vacation to America.

“Be right there, mister,” a slow, southern drawl answered him from the back room. The owner of the voice, a wizened old man, emerged a few seconds later, blinking rapidly against the sunlight streaming in through the windows. He finished buttoning a plain white shirt that had clearly seen cleaner days and smiled nervously, showing an uneven row of yellowing, tobacco-stained teeth. “Now, then, what can I do for y’all?”

“I would like a room, please. You have a vacancy?”

“A room?” The old man seemed surprised by the notion that anyone would want to stay at his establishment. Then he roused himself. “That ain’t no problem, mister. I’ve got plenty of rooms.”

He looked Halovic up and, down, clearly weighing what the traffic would bear. “Now, I charge twenty-five bucks a night~ash. In advance.” He looked almost defiant as he continued: “I don’t take no credit cards. And no checks, neither. Too much trouble.”

Halovic nodded. Better and better. He had hoped that the motel oh’s — Keeping would be on a par with his eanliness. Carrying out this phase of the mission already entailed more risk and personal exposure than he would have preferred. At least staying in this rattrap would not require leaving a paper trail for the police to follow. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a full wallet, and carefully counted out fifty dollars in crisp ten-dollar bills. “That is not a problem. I would like to stay at least two nights, please.”

“Two nights?” The old man seemed even more astonished, but not so astonished, Halovic noted, that he neglected to grab the money in front of him. “You can have number five. Tidied it up myself yesterday.”

He reached under the counter for the right key and dropped it onto the desk in front of Halovic. “Scuse me for asking, mister, but you’re a foreigner, ain’t that right?”

The Bosnian smiled politely. “Ja, that is right. I am German.”

“Thought so,” the old man said with satisfaction. “I thought so.” His eyes narrowed in speculation. “Now, I don’t mean to pry or nothing, but I was wondering what you’re doing here in town. Can’t say as we get many foreign tourists here in Walker’s Landing.”

Halovic allowed himself to look embarrassed and eager at the same time. “I have come for the shooting. To shoot the guns, you understand?”

“The shooting?” Understanding dawned on the motel owner’s lined face mixed in with some surprise. “You mean you come all the way from Germany to fire off a few rounds at our local gun club?”

“Oh, no. That is, not only to shoot.” Halovic paused, pretending to search for the right English words. “I am in America on a holiday. A sabbatical. I was in Richmond when I was told of your gun club.” The Bosnian shrugged. “It seemed a good opportunity, you understand? Firearms are restricted in my country. There are few places to shoot. It is not like here.”

The old man nodded slowly. “I’ve heard about them goddamn gun control laws like they gotwer~pe.” Although obviously still puzzled that anyone would come ad way to Walker’s Landing when there were more and better firing ranges closer to Richmond, he had clearly decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth. “Well, mister, I sure do hope you enjoy your stay.”

He nodded toward the door. “There’s a working phone in number five. You need anything, you just give me a holler, you hear?”

“Dazzle.”

“If you get hungry or want a drink, there’s a couple of bars and a diner in town, just up Route 250. Okay?”

Halovic politely nodded his understanding and turned to leave. He could feel the old man’s interested gaze as he walked back to his car. That was not surprising, really. In fact, he fully expected the story of the gun-crazy foreigner to be all over Walker’s Landing by nightfall.

That was exactly what Sefer Halovic wanted.

It was still daylight when he wandered up the road into town, trudging slowly along the grassy verge in the stifling heat. Although an occasional car or pickup truck passed him, the traffic was extremely light. Walker’s Landing was not really on the road to anywhere in particular. Certainly, the hamlet had very little to attract anyone to itself, he decided. Two churches, wood-framed houses, and a combination general store, post office, and pharmacy lined Route 250. Poorly paved streets on the right and left led off to more houses and a tiny school.

He stopped first at one of the local bars, the Riverfront. He didn’t stay long.

A loud rock sound track pounded at him as he walked in the door. Four or five customers were scattered around the bar, all of them in their early to mid-twenties. Halovic frowned at the bare wood dance floor and drum set that dominated one end of the interior. This place was not what he was looking for. This was a dance club, not a drinking saloon. Besides, the bartender and two of his patrons were black.

Halovic made sure that everyone noticed the hard, angry scowl he directed at them before he spun on his heel and stalked out. He had an image to create and maintain.

The Riverfront’s sole competitor looked more promising.

The Bon Air Bar sat at the north end of town, flanked on one side by a rutted, boggy field the bar’s customers used as a parking lot, and on the other by a small stand of trees. The ‘brick building’s brown-painted wood-shingle roof might seem rustic or even homey at night, but the harsh late afternoon sunlight would not tolerate such friendly illusions.

Right now the Bon Air Bar looked bleak and shabby. A neon sign on the roof advertised Budweiser beer, but Halovic wasn’t sure it would actually light once the sun went down.

This time he heard country-western music coming out of a corner jukebox. There was no sign of a dance floor. The room smelled of tobacco smoke and beer, and its dark wood paneling seemed to absorb the dim light. The only bright color in the bar was a five-foot American flag tacked up across one wall. Two middle-aged men sat together, talking, while a younger man, thin with long hair, tended bar. A TV blared in one corner, tuned to yet another baseball game.

Halovic stood in the doorway for a few moments, taking in the scene in front of him. He actually liked country-western music, which had a fair-sized following in Eastern Europe. And this appeared a quiet place, one not used to strangers, but certainly more restful than the Riverfront. It should suit his needs.

He walked over and sat down on a red plastic barstool. When the bored-looking young bartender glanced in his direction, he asked for a beer, carefully picking an American brand.

He sipped the pale, cold brew cautiously, comparing it unfavorably to the darker, warmer European beers he’d first tried as a student in Sarajevo and then again as part of the intensive preparation for this mission at Masegarh. Alcohol was forbidden to followers of the Prophet under normal circumstances, but God would understand the need to camouflage himself in this land of unbelievers. He was supposed to be a German and Germans drank beer.

Still drinking slowly, he let his eyes focus on the unfamiliar game being played out on the television set. And then he waited.

“I don’t guess they have much baseball where you come from, mister.”

Halovic looked away from the TV to find the bartender looking at him. He shagged and smiled politely, clearly puzzled by what he had been watching. “That is true. In Germany we play football what you call soccer. It is a fast game and very simple. But this” he nodded toward the set “this baseball of yours is so difficult. So complicated.”

“It’s not all that tough, actually.” The bartender grinned and held out his hand. “My name’s Ricky Smith, by the way.”

Halovic shook hands with the younger man and introduced himself. “Karl Gruning. From Leipzig.”

“Pleased to meet you.” Smith nodded toward the television again. “You want me to explain the finer points of the game?”

“I would be very grateful,” Halovic lied smoothly. He sat back on his stool and sipped at his beer, content to let the bartender’s gibberish about double plays, foul balls, and the rest wash over him.

The afternoon and early evening passed quietly. Halovic studied the men coming into the bar, noting faces and even names when he could hear them. Most wore work clothes, faded blue jeans or coveralls. Some had obviously come straight from their jobs or farms. While there were men in their twenties and thirties, the bulk of them were older.

By six-thirty there were ten or twelve men inside the Bon Air all familiar to each other. Most came up and greeted the bartender, who in turn introduced the German tourist, “Karl.”

Halovic answered their questions easily, describing Germany and the journey he planned across America. But he was always quick to turn the conversation back to baseball or to firearms and sport shooting.

One of the men talking to him paused to light a cigarette and then spoke around it. “I heard it’s real tough to buy guns overseas. That true?”

Halovic nodded. “That is so. The authorities, they do not like citizens to own weapons. Even for hunting or sport. It is strictly forbidden in many places.”

The man and several of his companions shook their heads in disgust. One muttered something about “goddamn guy’mints.”

Their heads turned toward the TV as a sudden roar burst from the televised crowd. The man with the cigarette whistled and nudged the others. “Well, I’ll be damned! Will you look at that! A grand slam! That boy hit a goddamn grand slam!”

Halovic carefully concealed his contempt. These people were like children easily distracted and amused by trivialities. No wonder they were held in thrall by the rich and powerful in this country’s cities and suburbs. Perhaps it was time to begin shaping the conversation to suit his purpose in coming to this backwater town.

He waited until the cameras cut away from the stadium and back to the network studio for a recap of the other games played that day. The commentator was a black man.

After listening to the sports anchor rattle off meaningless statistics for a few moments, Halovic suddenly remarked sharply, “Ah, get him out of here. I don’t want to see him.”

One of the older men seated nearby shook his head slowly. “He ain’t that bad, Karl. You should hear ”

“No, no, I don’t care if he is good or bad,” Halovic countered. He grimaced. “I am just tired of all the blacks I see on television all the time. It’s worse here even than in Germany.”

Without pausing, he launched into a bitter fusillade against “the Turks, Arabs, and Africans who infest Germany’s streets and steal jobs from true Germans.”

As he spoke, Halovic carefully noted the reaction from the group. The four men he’d been talking with all frowned slightly or showed neutral reactions. When he finished, there was a small embarrassed silence. To his chagrin, nobody took the bait he’d laid out, and someone quickly changed the subject to the latest movies and TV shows.

Dinnertime came and Halovic ordered a barbecue sandwich. The crowd thinned only slightly during the dinner hour, then grew again until the Bon Air was comfortably filled.

The group sitting near him changed as men drifted in and out, and he took advantage of that to occasionally throw out a biting reference to the problems caused by blacks in America, comparing them to similar situations in Europe. He also complained about the interracial marriages and about black people’s “low intelligence and tendency toward crime.”

Most ignored his remarks, or changed the subject, or simply left quickly. A few argued the points with him, or even agreed to some extent. Despite that, none of them reacted in the way that he had hoped.

By ten o’clock Halovic was beginning to feel the effects of the beer he’d been drinking, even at his limited rate. His eyes smarted from the tobacco smoke and the stuffy air, so he made his excuses, paid his bill, and left.

The walk back through town to his dingy motel room helped ease some of his frustration but not all of it. Although he had known that this part of General Taleh’s master plan would take time and some risk to implement, he was all too aware of the days slipping past.

Halovic rose early the next morning. He exercised in his room, showered, and changed into jeans and a short-sleeved shirt. It was just after dawn when he stepped out into the muggy air.

Already aware of the sweat beginning to soak the back of his shirt, he crossed the highway and walked back to the diner he’d spotted the night before. There were three waitresses working that morning, one of whom was black. He was careful not to sit at one of her tables and he took pains to make his disdain for her known.

After a light breakfast he returned to his room, grabbed the Remington.30–06 rifle Yassine had procured for him earlier at a northern Virginia gun shop, and pocketed a large handful of cartridges. Before heading to his car, he also loaded a small 9mm pistol and tucked it away into a holster concealed in the small of his back. In Halovic’s experience, it never hurt to have a hidden edge.

The Walker’s Landing Rod and Gun Club lay right next to the James River, three miles west of town and down a winding country lane. A faded sign by the side of the road directed him to the clubhouse, an old concrete-block building topped by a rusting aluminum roof. Several other vehicles were already parked out front, and he could hear the steady pop-pop-pop of small-arms fire from off behind a row of trees.

With his rifle tucked under his arm, Halovic walked into the clubhouse to pay the five-dollar fee it would take to make him a member for the day. He paused just beyond the door to let his eyes adjust to the interior light.

Display cases containing rifles, pistols, shotguns, fishing rods, and other sports gear filled half the tiny shop. The rest seemed full of a hodgepodge of U.S. Army surplus clothing and military collectibles: World War II Wehrmacht helmets, fur-lined Soviet tanker’s hats, knives, bayonets, and boxes full of decorations, service ribbons, and unit patches from a dozen different countries.

How ridiculous, Halovic thought icily, these Americans play so hard at being warriors. And yet, how little they understand about real war.

He stepped up to the counter with his five dollars already out and ready.

The proprietor, a large, bearded fellow wearing a white T-shirt with a fish on the front, took his money with a smile and passed him a photocopied sheet. “Those are our range safety instructions,” he explained. “They’re pretty basic. No booze, no automatic weapons, and no explosive targets are allowed here at the club.

“Now, when somebody yells ‘clear,’ it means they want to retrieve their targets. When you hear that, you immediately cease fire and put your weapon down. And then you yell ‘clear’ back so they know you heard ‘em. Once everybody’s stopped shooting, you’re free to go out and check your own targets. Okay?”

Halovic nodded his understanding.

The other man eyed his rifle appreciatively. “That’s a nice piece. Brand-new?”

“It is.” Halovic patted the stock fondly. “I bought it just last week. A real beauty, eh?”

“Uh-huh. You need any ammo today? I’ve got a good special running on boxes of .30–06.”

Halovic nodded again. He didn’t really need more ammunition, but it made little sense to risk antagonising this man. “One box, please. And a map of the area, if you have such a thing.”

While the big, bearded man rang up his purchases, he used the opportunity to study his surroundings a little more closely. The owner and most of his customers were white, but one black couple was also there, perusing the racks of handguns and hunting rifles. Halovic took pains to shoot several hard looks at them, some of which, he noted, were spotted by others in the shop.

With the racial views of Karl Gruning once more made plain, the Bosnian cradled his rifle and headed outside toward the sound of gunfire.

By four o’clock Halovic was back in the Bon Air Bar, this time perched well away from the television set.

He scowled to himself. The shooting range had been another waste of time. The people he’d met had been friendly enough, and they were certainly well versed in the workings of their various weapons, but none of them had been the least bit interested in his racial or political views. Worse from his viewpoint, the Walker’s Landing Rod and Gun Club had seemed merely a wellarmed version of the Elks, or Lions, or some other kind of American civic organisation. It was not the sort of place that would attract the kinds of men he had come looking for.

So again he quietly sipped beer and conversed with the regulars. They seemed to accept him more today at least in the sense that they were willing to challenge some of his wilder statements. One fellow named Jeff Dickerson, short, pudgy, and in his thirties, seemed to have come in with that as his express purpose. Halovic remembered him from last night. Dickerson had walked out right after he had uttered something about blacks and Jews causing most of the problems in the world. Now the man was back.

That played right into Halovic’s hands. This man Dickerson was intent on a reasoned debate, so he gave him one. He was careful to keep the conversation unemotional, since an argument might cause them to be ejected from the bar. At a minimum an argument would drive other listeners away. And Halovic wanted listeners.

Speaking softly and calmly, he articulated a carefully thought-out worldview in which “lesser races” were the cause of many of the world’s current problems. Knowing he would need such information, he had spent many hours studying the neo-Nazi pamphlets and other literature Taleh’s agents had obtained in the United States and Europe. Now he repeated some of those same phrases, and quoted from German and American fringe writers who’d published books like The Jewish Crime and Genetics and Race. He also mentioned the Christian Bible frequently, selectively citing passages that supported his views.

Halovic didn’t believe any of it himself. In fact, he found their arguments and “facts” pathetic almost comical. Islam, true Islam, recognised no racial divisions among the Faithful. Nevertheless, the man he was supposed to he would have believed in his hatreds with his whole heart and soul, and he had no compunctions about spouting such nonsense as long as it furthered his mission.

It was not a fair fight. The American was motivated by honest conviction and limited by logic. Halovic, whose only goal was to widely air a racist philosophy, used or abandoned logic as he chose. Always friendly, always convincing, he manufactured facts and statistics, the more outrageous the better. And in the end, after almost an hour of intense discussion, the other man stormed out, thoroughly disgusted.

Inside, Halovic smiled. He’d watched the others in the bar while he’d argued with Dickerson. Most had at least been aware of the conversation. Some had tuned in surreptitiously, listening to the verbal cut and thrust with interest.

Nobody else seemed immediately eager to take up the racial gauntlet he’d thrown down, so he sat alone quietly, watching television while he waited again for his efforts to bear fruit.

A little after seven, two men entered the bar. Halovic, who reflexively kept one eye on the door, only noticed their arrival among the after-dinner crowd because one of the pair gestured in his direction and said something to his companion.

Both came over to him right away. The first offered his hand and said, “I’m Tony McGowan. We talked yesterday.”

Halovic took it, remembering the tall, black-haired man. He hadn’t said much, but he’d always been nearby, in easy earshot.

The other man was older, in his fifties, with rougher features and brown hair cropped almost as short as Halovic’s. He was built like a wrestler gone to seed, bulging muscles gone slack or turned to fat. He also extended his hand. “Name’s Jim Burke. J hear you’re looking to do a little shooting.”

Halovic nodded. “Ja. I shot some today at your gun club here.” He allowed his disappointment to show on his face and in his voice.

Burke smiled thinly. “Pretty tame, isn’t it? Nothing much exciting to shoot at out there. A few regulation targets and some old cans and bottles.”

McGowan chimed in. “Real little-old-lady stuff.”

Halovic nodded cautiously.

Burke took the barstool next to him and signaled the bartender for three more beers. He leaned closer. “A few of us have a range we’ve set up on some private property. We can cut loose a little more out there than they do at the gun club. Anyway, we were wondering if you’d like to join us out there tomorrow. Say, around noon.”

Halovic thought fast.

Were these men what they claimed to be, friendly locals simply looking for a chance to show off their weapons and skills to a foreign visitor? Unlikely, he decided. Tomorrow was a weekday, a workday for most of these people.

Or were they provocateurs, law officers of some type on the prowl for potential troublemakers? That was doubtful too, he realized. Walker’s Landing seemed too small and isolated to warrant much attention from the authorities.

Halovic felt a sudden thrill the same kind of thrill he always experienced when his crosshairs first settled on his chosen target. It was far more likely that Burke and McGowan were two of the very men he had come hunting. He smiled slowly at the man sitting beside him. “Thank you, yes. I would like to shoot with you very much. It would be an honor.”

The red Blazer that picked up Sefer Halovic in the morning held three men: Burke, McGowan, and another man, much younger and in excellent physical condition, behind the wheel. He introduced himself as Dave Keller.

Halovic climbed into the backseat beside McGowan. He was already starting to sense the hierarchy involved here. Burke was clearly the leader and the man he must convince. The others would look to him.

Their shooting range was a fifteen-minute drive south of Walker’s Landing, well off Route 250 down a narrow, wooded private road. Frequent signs warned trespassers to stay out. Those closest to the highway threatened legal action against anyone caught violating private property. The notices further down the road carried more ominous warnings.

Halovic shifted slightly in his seat. He had been right. Whatever else they were up to, these men were not just being friendly to a foreign tourist. The shape of the pistol he carried concealed in the small of his back was suddenly reassuring.

Keller wheeled the Blazer off the road and into a long, narrow clearing separating dense woods on either side. More trees at the far end closed off the clearing entirely. The four of them piled out and began pulling their gear out of the back.

The Bosnian finished loading his rifle and straightened up. He looked down the clearing with interest. Burke and his companions had accumulated a wide variety of potential targets for their private shooting gallery. There were old oil drums, rusting refrigerators, and even a couple of abandoned cars scattered at varying distances all the way back to the distant woods. Most of them were shot full of ragged holes.

Keller nodded toward the optical scope Halovic had fixed to his rifle.

“You got that zeroed in yet?”

He shook his head. “No, I would like to do that now.”

Keller pointed toward an oil drum someone had painted red. “That’s two hundred yards. Give or take a foot or two.” He grinned mirthlessly “Danke.” Halovic dropped into a relaxed kneeling posture and chambered a round. This would be an easy shot. There was no appreciable wind, and he knew the precise range to his target. He took a breath, let it out, took another, sighted, and then gently squeezed the trigger.

A puff of dirt appeared six inches in front of the barrel and a few inches to one side. After making a minute adjustment to the sight, he fired again.

This time the barrel rocked slightly punched clean through the center.

“Damned good shooting,” Burke remarked casually from beside his ear.

“Ja. Well, I was in the Army,” Halovic lied.

“What did you do?”

“I was a sniper.” That much at least was true.

Burke smiled. “A sniper, eh? That’s interesting.” He glanced at the others briefly and then turned back to Halovic. “See the crooked tree just past that old Dodge? The black willow? Now take a good look just to the left.”

Halovic swung the rifle left slowly, hunting through the scope for the spot the older man had indicated. He stopped as a figure dressed in camouflage fatigues and hunched beside the tree trunk leaped into focus.

He took his eye away from the scope in surprise and glanced at Burke.

“There is a man out there!”

The older man grinned. “Not really.” He nodded downrange. “That’s just a dummy we dressed up. Adds a little kick to the target practice.”

Halovic nodded slowly. “I understand.” Then he allowed a smile to form on his face. “That is much better than shooting at old metal!”

McGowan slapped him on the shoulder. “You got it, Karl!” He tapped the Remington rifle in Halovic’s hands. “That .30–06 is nice, but how about handling something with a little more kick? You know, some real rock-and-roll?”

“Rock-and-roll?” Halovic didn’t have to pretend any confusion this time.

“Yeah. Something that can go off on full auto. Something like this baby.” McGowan held out an assault rifle a weapon the Bosnian recognised as a Chinese-made variant of the old Russian AK-47.

Halovic laid down his .30–06 and took the assault rifle McGowan offered. Although thousands had been sold in the U.S. as semiautomatic weapons, someone had reconfigured this one to allow full-automatic fire. He looked up. “This rifle… isn’t it against your American gun control laws?”

Burke shrugged. “Maybe. But this is private property, Karl. And we’re a long way down the road. So what we do here is our own damned business. Nobody interferes with us. Understand?”

Halovic nodded firmly. “I understand.”

“So let her rip.”

“As you wish.” With the ease born of long practice, the Bosnian flipped the safety off and began shredding a series of targets, walking his fire from right to left as he pumped short bursts into each. In seconds, he’d emptied the thirty-round magazine. He turned to the other men with a broad grin on his face, slapped the AK’s stock with one hand, and exclaimed: “Ausgezeichnet! Very good! A beautiful weapon!”

Burke, McGowan, and Keller were staring openmouthed down the range.

Finally the older man spoke for them all. “Goddamn, Karl! That was some beautiful shooting.” He looked at the row of mangled barrels and torn-up refrigerators again and shook his head in admiration. “Now, that calls for a drink! And for something to eat, by God.”

Galvanized by their leader’s decision, McGowan and Keller hurried to the Blazer and brought back a cooler containing a couple of six-packs, a loaf of bread, condiments, and an assortment of lunch meats. The four of them found shade under a nearby tree and sat back at ease, swapping sandwich fixings and cans of ice-cold beer.

Burke broke the companionable silence first. The burly man brushed the crumbs off his lap, drained his beer can, crumpled it, and tossed it casually aside. “Tony tells me you’ve got some pretty strong views on race problems, Karl. Is that a fact?”

Ah. Now it begins, Halovic thought. He nodded firmly. “That is a fact, Jim.” Then he shrugged. “I know these views are not popular in America, but truth is the truth. The white races all over the world are being buried by a sea of inferiors of blacks, of Jews, of Arabs…”

He was heartened by the other men’s reactions as he continued his often-rehearsed tirade. Burke and McGowan both smiled and nodded as he made his points, dearly pleased by what they were hearing. Even Keller seemed to relax slightly.

Burke nodded sharply again when the Bosnian wound up his peroration with the assertion that “time is short. We must act soon and in force before we are drowned and our race with us.”

The older man pursed his lips. “You’ve sure got that right, Karl.” He scowled. “God only knows the riggers and the rest are getting uppity as hell in this country.”

That brought rumbles of assent from both Keller and McGowan.

Burke took another beer out of the cooler, drank deeply, and began outlining his own extremist views. Not surprisingly, they paralleled those Halovic had just laid out in every significant detail. He seemed delighted to find a kindred spirit from overseas especially from Germany. His two followers chimed in occasionally, but they always deferred to the older man.

They are sheep, Halovic thought with contempt, all the while smiling and nodding himself. They go wherever they are led.

“Are there many others like you over there in Germany, Karl? Men who’re willing to stand up for the white race?” Burke asked at last.

“Yes. Many.” Halovic paused significantly to make sure he had their full attention. “And not just in Germany. There are others like us all over Europe.”

He stabbed at the grass with his finger as he continued. “We are organising. Mobilizing. Arming! We are strong and growing stronger. The moment of truth is drawing near. Soon we shall strike. First in my homeland. And then in the other nations of Europe.”

“Outstanding!” Burke’s enthusiasm, unlike Halovic’s, was wholly unfeigned. He turned to McGowan and Keller. “What’d I tell you boys? We’re not alone in this fight. See, all we’ve got to do is provide some god damned leadership and the pure whites will rise up to join us!”

Halovic took a deep breath. “So you have organisations such as mine here in America?” he asked carefully.

“Hell, yes, Karl!” Burke grinned proudly. “You’re looking at the leader of one of the biggest!”

The Bosnian listened with hidden disdain and open admiration as the older man outlined his plans to “retake” America from its racial and genetic enemies. His wild-eyed schemes a linked series of attacks and assassinations were intended to spark a nationwide rising of the white race. To fire a revolt that Burke believed would be spearheaded by his own fanatical group the “Aryan Sword.”

Madness, Halovic thought coldly. But perhaps he could make it a madness tinged with a tiny grain of truth.

“We don’t have the numbers I’d like. Not yet,” the older American admitted. “But we’re recruiting pretty fast. People around here are waking up to what’s going on.”

“That’s true!” McGowan asserted loyally, backing up his leader. “With the Ramseys, we’ve got fifty-two members counting the kids who’re old enough to carry a gun.”

Halovic tried hard to look impressed. In truth, those numbers were somewhat larger than he’d expected. Under all his drunken bluster, this man Burke must have the charisma needed to draw ignorant and gullible people together under a banner of hate.

He leaned closer to the older man. It was time to make his move. “That is wonderful news. Great news. I had hoped to find a movement of courage here in America. You see, I am here to build an alliance across the seas. The war begins soon and we must fight together side by side against the Jews and the blacks and the rest.”

The Bosnian pulled a crumpled pamphlet out of his shirt pocket and handed it to Burke. Titled “The Jewish Plan,” it had been picked up months ago at a white supremacist rally in Maryland by an Iranian agent posing as a journalist. “This was my guide.”

“Jesus! That’s Harry’s pamphlet. I helped him run it off,” McGowan exclaimed in surprise.

The atmosphere changed abruptly. Burke’s face was suddenly a mask, unreadable. Halovic noted that Keller’s hand now rested on the barrel of his rifle. He fought the temptation to reach for his own concealed pistol. He had known that this would be a moment of crisis. By their nature, hate groups like the Aryan Sword were run by secretive, paranoid men. They would not like the notion of a stranger actively searching for them.

He pointed toward the pamphlet still clutched in the older man’s hand.

“This was passed to us in Leipzig,” he lied. “We knew that there were centers of resistance here in America, so I was sent to find them. But I am not alone. Others are looking too in other parts of your country.”

Burke shook his head in evident disbelief, but Halovic could see the excitement bubbling up beneath the older man’s inbred suspicion.

He allowed himself to relax however minutely. Everything was as the mission planners in Tehran had foreseen. People like Burke often talked in grandiose terms of forging an army, of leading a revolution, of blood and fire and sword. But they never seemed completely prepared to see their ideas taken seriously. The idea that someone might actually begin the race war they had predicted had them off balance.

The silence stretched.

McGowan reacted first. “This is bullshit!” he exploded. He stood up, pacing stiffly over to Burke. “What’s this guy talking about? Even assuming he’s telling the truth, what do we care about Europe’?”

Halovic checked Keller, who had not moved. The younger man’s hand still rested on his rifle.

“Tony had a good point, Karl,” Burke said carefully. “Why should we stick our necks out for you? What do we have to gain?”

“Arms. Sophisticated weapons.”

McGowan snorted, but Burke held up a hand to silence him and only said mildly, “We’re pretty well fixed for guns, Karl. As you should know.”

“Small arms, yes. But I can get you automatic grenade launchers, antitank rockets, mortars, land mines, even antiaircraft missiles. Ammunition, explosives, and detonators too. Do you have these things?”

“No.” The older man looked more interested. “At what price?”

Halovic shrugged. “Well below the price on the black market. Just enough to cover our own costs and shipping.”

“Sure,” McGowan sneered. “Now it comes out. This bastard’s a con artist. I say we let him walk back from here.” He nodded angrily toward the dark woods around them. “Or maybe we just make sure he doesn’t go back at all.”

A grim-faced Keller nodded slowly in agreement.

Halovic tensed.

“Sit down, Tony,” Burke snapped. He turned back to the Bosnian.

“You’re talking pretty big, Karl. You’d better be able to back up what you say. Now, how the hell did you lay your hands on mortars and the rest? And what makes you think you can get that kind of hardware over here without the feds going apeshit?”

He had them, Halovic realised. He shrugged. “When the two Germanys merged, there was much confusion. The old communist Army built hidden arms bunkers all over East Germany. Their record-keeping was very poor.” He smiled coldly. “My comrades and I found it easy to make some of those bunkers disappear from the files.

“As for transport…” He shrugged again. “That is simplicity itself. We have friends like you in position in ports like Hamburg and Rotterdam. And more friends in Canada who will handle transshipment for us.”

Halovic fixed his gaze on Burke. “I say we can get you the arms you want. The arms you will need. I tell you again most solemnly, the war of blood and race you have foretold is upon us all.”

The older man licked his lips, clearly tempted but still uncertain. He glanced swiftly at McGowan and Keller as though seeking their silent counsel. At last, he shook his head and stood up. “I’ve got to think more on this, Karl.”

Halovic and the others stood up with him.

Burke looked at Keller. “You take him back to his motel for now, Dave.” Then he turned back to Halovic. “And you be waiting outside your motel room at nine tomorrow morning. We’ll talk more then. Clear?”

The Bosnian nodded silently, satisfied. He would let their greed and ambition war with their cowardice and caution through the night. He was over the first hurdle.

Wearing a light jacket over an open-necked shirt, Sefer Halovic stood waiting outside his motel room early the next morning. He didn’t have to wait long. A rusty blue sedan an old Chevrolet turned off the road and roared straight across the gravel lot toward him at high speed. He forced himself to stand still as the car squealed to a stop right beside him.

Burke and McGowan were in front. Keller sat in the back “Get in,” the older man ordered.

Halovic obeyed, careful to keep his hands in plain view at all times. He didn’t like the tone of Burke’s voice or the strain he could see on his face and those of Keller and McGowan. These men were operating on a hair trigger and that was dangerous both for him and for them.

With McGowan at the wheel, the Chevrolet skidded out of the motel parking lot and turned north onto Route 250. They crossed the lames River in silence and headed east on Route 6.

After several minutes, Halovic risked a question. “Where are we going?”

“Richmond,” Burke replied tersely.

Richmond? Why there?

Keller handed him a manila envelope. “Read this.”

Suppressing any questions, Halovic leafed though a sheaf of newspaper clippings and typewritten pages. They all concerned one man a prosperous local black businessman named John Malcolm. The first clipping, a few years old, described a new youth training program launched by Malcolm. Other articles described the success of the program and his further ventures. He was active in several social circles, and he was a popular speaker at local schools and community meetings. One of the last clippings speculated on Malcolm’s chances as a candidate in an upcoming congressional race.

The typewritten pages were a detailed dossier on Malcolm. They listed his home and business address, his children’s schools, his wife’s work, his church, his closest associates, and every aspect of his daily routine.

Halovic was impressed. Someone had done a great deal of research on this man and his movements. Its purpose was obvious. Malcolm was targeted for some sort of action by Burke’s group. He was precisely the sort of black man they would hate and fear most prominent, successful, and socially accepted. Judging by the dates, it was something they had been planning for quite some time.

He finished reading and looked up at the older man. “For what reason do you show me this?”

“We want you to kill him.”

Halovic nodded slowly. Two possibilities confronted him. If these men really were neo-Nazi radicals, this was a test of his sincerity, and by their standards, of his bravery. That was understandable. On the other hand, if Burke, McGowan, and Keller were police informers or agents, this was a trap a ploy to have him condemn himself out of his own mouth.

To buy time to think, he stared for a moment at the quiet wooded countryside streaming past before glancing back at Burke. “And if I do?”

“We’ll deal. Weapons for cash.”

Halovic considered his chances coldly. If they were serious, his course of action was clear. Killing Malcolm meant nothing to him. All that mattered was the risk of discovery. Of capture. Of failure. Of course, refusing would also mean failure. Burke and his followers would never risk continued contact with a man they did not trust. That much was certain.

He studied the dossier again. The material it contained was well organized and complete. There were no airy assumptions, no unnecessary rhetoric. It was all very professional. And his companions, while reactionary, did not appear excessively sloppy or wholly stupid.

Questions swirled in his mind. Why hadn’t they assassinated this man themselves? He wasn’t naive enough to think he’d just happened to show up at the right time.

Halovic sensed the others waiting with mounting impatience. He had taken a reasonable amount of time to ponder his answer, but if he waited any longer, he would be stalling, both them and himself. There was no other data to be had. And delay could be fatal in more than one way. Decide, he told himself sharply.

Stung into action, he nodded. “Very well. I will kill this black man for you.” Almost by reflex a workable plan popped into his brain. “You have a weapon for me?”

Burke glanced at Keller. “Show it to him, Dave.”

The younger man reached into a brown paper bag between his feet and pulled out a brand-new pair of gardening gloves, a 9mm automatic, a separate eight-round clip, and a bulky, cylindrical silencer.

Halovic recognised weapon as a Smith & Wesson Mark 22 a silenced model first used during the Vietnam War by U.S. Navy commandos. They had called it the Hush Puppy.

“There’s a rifle in the trunk if you want it instead,” Burke said.

Halovic shook his head. He would complete this operation at close range. “The pistol will suffice.”

“It’s cold,” Keller said reassuringly. In answer to Halovic’s questioning look, he explained, “it’s not traceable. A dealer at a gun show traded it to us years ago. He doesn’t keep records.”

“That is very good.” Halovic slid the clip into place, worked the action, and screwed the silencer into the pistol’s muzzle. He nodded, satisfied by what he saw. The weapon was in excellent condition.

He looked out the window again. There were more houses and stores lining the highway. A sign informed him they were nearing the outskirts of Richmond.

Burke watched him closely. “You got any idea of how you want to do this thing, Karl?”

“Ja.” Halovic thumbed through the dossier until he came to a map showing Malcolm’s movements. Then he leaned forward and jabbed a finger at the spot he wanted. “Drive here, to Elkheart Road. We will go directly to his office.””

Burke nodded slowly after studying the map himself. “Okay. Do what the man says, Tony.”

McGowan complied.

Ten minutes later, they were in a quiet, suburban section of Richmond. The small professional building that housed Malcolm’s office lay a few treelined blocks from a large shopping mall. A parking lot surrounded the two-story brick and glass structure on three sides.

“Pull in here,” Halovic ordered. He pointed to an empty space near the exit to the street. “There. Back in.”

Sweating now, McGowan cranked the wheel over hard and carefully backed the Chevrolet into place between two other cars.

Moving slowly and methodically, Halovic donned the gloves Keller had given him and began to carefully wipe the metal surface of the pistol with a handkerchief. He was aware that all three men were staring at him. Burke seemed pleased. McGowan was wide-eyed and looked increasingly nervous. Keller was poker-faced.

The three Americans exchanged quick glances and then nodded to each other.

“We’ve seen enough,” said Burke. “We believe you.” “Excuse me?” Halovic said. He tucked the pistol under his jacket.

“I said, we’ve seen enough,” repeated Burke. “That’s it. You were ready to go through with it. That’s all we wanted to know.”

Halovic frowned inside. His first contemptuous suspicions had been right. All of Burke’s talk about waiting for the right moment, his elaborate plans, their stockpiled weapons, it was all just a fantasy.

He stared hard at the older man and shook his head. “No. It is not enough.”

“Huh?” Burke was clearly bewildered. “What do you mean, Karl?”

“This was a test, true? To see if I would kill?”

The older man nodded rapidly. “Yeah, that’s right.”

Halovic smiled coldly. “Very well. I accept that.” He pointed toward the office building. “Now I will test you. This black man will die and you will be a part of his death.”

He glanced at Keller, the man he judged the toughest and most reliable of the three. “You. You will come along as my lookout.”

The younger man stared at him for a moment, plainly taken aback.

“Hold on just a minute, Karl,” Burke interrupted. “There’s no need to go off half-cocked. I told you that we’re satisfied you’re one of us. We don’t need to take any unnecessary risks here today.”

A pale, terrified McGowan mumbled his agreement with his leader.

“Risks? You fear risks?” Halovic said scornfully. “And yet you call yourselves soldiers?” He shrugged. “My people will not deal with cowards or shirkers. Either this black man dies, here, today, or you will see no advanced weapons from me. Is that clear?”

He waved a hand toward the office building. “I tell you that your plan is-good. This man can be killed with ease. But you must act not sit and dream.” He turned back to Keller. “Decide. Will you come with me?”

The younger man stared first at Halovic and then at Burke. “Jesus, Jim … what do you think?”

Clearly torn, the older man chewed his lower lip. He wanted those grenade launchers and explosives. He just hadn’t expected to be asked to help kill anybody to prove his own good faith. Finally, he shrugged.

“It’s up to you, Dave. We need those guns.”

“You are afraid,” Halovic said flatly, forcing the issue. “Stay behind, then.”

“Hell, no!” Keller flushed, unwilling to admit his fear. “If you really want to kill this nigger, I’ll help you do it.”

Halovic popped open the car door and got out quickly, before the stunned Burke could say anything else. The Bosnian worked hard to keep his expression neutral. These American fools were about to learn the difference between fantasy and deadly reality a reality he already knew all too well.

Keller followed him without evident hesitation.

That was good, Halovic decided. He had no intention of trusting his life to this man, but at least he showed some backbone.

The office building’s glass double door led into a small lobby. He checked the building directory, reconfirming the information contained in the dossier. Malcolm’s offices were still on the second floor suite. Nobody else was in sight.

With Keller at his heels, Halovic walked down a short hall to a door marked “Stairs.” He ignored the elevator.

Two flights of bare concrete steps led up to an unlocked steel fire door. Halovic paused long enough to make sure that it could be opened easily from either side. If anything went wrong in the next few minutes, a rapid exit might prove to be the difference between life and death.

The door opened up on a long hall that ran the length of the building, widening in the middle for the elevators. John Malcolm’s office was down at the far end of the hallway.

With Keller still following him, Halovic walked briskly past a series of other offices. The sounds of typing and soft music filtered out from behind closed doors. The hallway was empty.

He stopped just outside suite 215. Painted lettering on a frosted glass door identified it as the offices of Malcolm Accounting. After checking the hallway again, he slipped the bulky Smith & Wesson out of his jacket. Then he turned toward Keller, measuring him one last time.

— The American licked his lips, clearly nervous, but still in control of himself. Halovic knew the look well. He’d seen it on dozens of men just before their first real action.

Readying his automatic, he commanded softly, “Do not let anyone in behind me.”

Keller nodded quickly.

With the pistol held out of sight, Halovic opened the door and walked through it into a reception area. Dark wood furniture, soft carpeting, and original oil landscapes on the walls conveyed a reassuring air of stability and success. A middle-aged black woman with snow-white hair sat behind a desk.

She looked up with a polite smile. “Good morning. Can I help you gentlemen?”

Halovic smiled back. “I certainly hope so. Is Mr. Malcolm in?”

“Yes, but he’s with a client…”

Good enough. Halovic brought the Smith & Wesson up in one smooth motion and shot the woman in the chest. Blood spattered across the painting hung behind her. Even silenced, the pistol’s report seemed shockingly loud, like someone dropping a heavy telephone book on a tile floor. He worked the slide rapidly, chambering another round, and fired again.

The woman slumped forward across her desk, scattering papers and a bound appointment book onto the carpeting.

“Oh shit.”

Halovic glanced behind him. Keller’s eyes were wide, almost white with shock. He stood frozen in the doorway, staring at the carnage. He had clearly completely forgotten his duties. The Bosnian had expected that. The American’s only real function was to act as a witness.

“Shut the door and be silent.” Halovic swung away toward the entrance to Malcolm’s inner office.

He knocked twice and went in without waiting for a reply. There were two men inside, one seated behind a large mahogany desk. The other occupied a Queen Anne chair in front of the desk. The furniture looked expensive, the men prosperous.

Malcolm, his primary target, was the one behind the desk. He matched his newspaper photos perfectly. A large, balding black man in his mid-fifties, he wore a subdued grey suit and conservative red tie. The other man, also black and similarly dressed, was younger. Halovic didn’t recognise him, and didn’t care. His presence here marked him for death.

Both looked toward the door, clearly surprised at being interrupted.

“You are Mr. John Malcolm?”

The man behind the desk nodded slowly. “That’s right.”

Halovic took three steps into the room, moving left to clear his field of fire. Perfect.

“Look, who are you?” Malcolm asked, still perplexed.

The Bosnian brought his pistol up, fired at Malcolm, swiveled slightly, and fired at the younger black man all within a single murderous second. Both shots struck home.

Without hurry, Halovic strode to the desk. Malcolm sprawled back in his chair, a bright red stain spilling across his stomach. One hand clutched at his belly wound, but the other just twitched feebly, pawing toward a phone just out of reach. The businessman’s eyes were open but unseeing, glazed with pain.

He had fired too low, Halovic thought coolly, displeased by the evident imperfection of his marksmanship. Stomach wounds were rarely immediately fatal.

This time he aimed carefully at Malcolm’s head and fired twice more. The black man’s face dissolved into red ruin and his body twitched violently as each 9mm round tore a path through his brain.

Without moving, the Bosnian turned to check the other man. Malcolm’s visitor was still alive. He’d fallen forward out of the chair onto the carpeted floor. Now, moaning loudly, he was crawling through his own blood inching in agony toward the open door.

“No, no, my friend,” Halovic said softly. do not escape.” He walked toward the crawling man, stood behind him, and fired two more shots into the back of his skull. Brains, blood, and skull fragments sprayed across the carpet. The young man shuddered once and lay still.

Halovic quickly stepped back and behind the desk, double-checking Malcolm’s throat for pulse. Nothing.

About thirty seconds had passed. He walked out of the inner office.. Again acting on trained reflex, he checked the white-haired receptionist, making sure she was dead. She lay as he had left her, facedown on a desk almost completely covered in her own blood. He dropped the automatic. Nothing about it would lead the police back to him, so there wasn’t any need to risk being caught with it later.

Keller stared at him both in horror and in admiration. “Oh, man. You did it. You killed everyone. Didn’t you?” “You saw me,” Halovic said coldly. He motioned the American out into the hallway, turned the snap lock on the door, and closed it behind him. They were done here.

He half expected to find Burke, McGowan, and the car gone, but the Chevrolet was still parked where they had left it. He and Keller piled in and he ordered, “Drive. But take your time. No traffic accidents, please.”

“Sure. Sure. No problem.” McGowan put the car in gear and drove slowly away. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel.

Burke furtively studied the two men in the backseat. From time to time he opened his mouth as though to ask exactly what had happened inside Malcolm’s office, but each time, he closed it without speaking. Halovic ignored him, calmly studying the city streets, checking to make sure they weren’t under surveillance.

Still pale and in a state of shock, Kaller slumped back against the rear seat, staring straight ahead, shivering occasionally. But when they turned onto the highway leading out of Richmond without any sign of police pursuit or even interest, he seemed to settle down. His shivers died away and his color began coming back.

Halovic watched the younger man with some interest. Keller was apparently learning how to come to terms with the blood bath he had witnessed. That was good. Given time, he might even learn to control his fears and to act with the discipline and ruthlessness a successful secret war required.

They were ten miles outside the Richmond city limits when Keller leaned forward, closer to Burke, and nodded toward Halovic. “Jesus, Jim, you should’ve seen it. Karl blew that damn nigger away like you’d put down a stray dog! He offed two more of ‘em, too. Just like that!” He snapped his fingers.

Burke stared at Halovic. “You shot three people?”

“It was necessary.” The Bosnian shrugged. “One man or three it makes no difference.” He smiled crookedly. “You cannot keep count in a war, Mr. Burke.”

His own calm was not an act. He had killed many times in Bosnia, so many that he had lost track somewhere along the way. The faces of the dead sometimes came to haunt him in nightmares, but they faded in the waking day. Besides, eliminating Malcolm had proved to be child’s play an act without significant risk. These Americans were all so open, so unprepared so unsuspecting. Killing them required less real effort than posting a letter.

“Then all this stuff about your group, about the alliance, about the guns and bombs you can get for us… that’s all true? No bullshit?” Burke asked rapidly.

Halovic could hear the excitement building in the other man’s voice. This was the reaction he had hoped for. Confronted for the first time by a man who would do what he had only dreamed about, Burke was beginning to see the prospect of his hate-filled rhetoric bearing real fruit.

He nodded somberly. “What I have told you is true. My comrades and I in Europe have the weapons… and the will to use them.” His eyes narrowed. “The question I put to you, Mr. Burke, is this: Do you and your men of the Aryan Sword have the courage to join with us in this war? Can you really kill to save the white race in America?”

“Hell, yes!” Burke exclaimed. He sounded almost surprised by the certainty in his own tone. Then he thumped his fist on the seat back for emphasis. “You get us that heavy duty hardware, Karl, and we’ll set this whole god damned state on fire before we’re done! The blacks and Jews won’t know what’s hit them!”

Keller nodded sharply, seconding his leader’s sudden resolution.

“That’s right!” He slapped McGowan on the back. ‘-‘Ain’t that right, Tony?”

The driver flinched and mumbled a tentative assent.

Halovic ignored him. McGowan was nothing a drone. Burke and Keller were the key men in their twisted group, the brains and the muscle of their so-called Aryan Sword.

He hid a satisfied smile as Burke started bargaining in earnest, making the complicated arrangements needed to covertly acquire a wide range of weapons and explosives. Clearly, the older man now believed they would help make him a leader in the new crusade to “purify” America.

Well, Halovic thought grimly, let him dream. If Burke and the other extremist leaders truly believed in the coming Armageddon, they might even work up the courage to act on their own when the time came. And if not, the armaments they were about to receive would still make them useful stalking-horses for General Taleh’s special action teams.

Either way these foolish Americans would be made to serve a greater purpose.