Fire Thieves…the novel

Prologue
Basra, Iraq

Kazem Al-Unistan chased a bead of sweat from temple to jaw with an agitated index finger. His cheek felt good, smooth and clean as a boy’s. A fly buzzed past his ear. He watched it collide with the windshield and dance against the glass as the morning heat turned his faded, sky-blue Mercedes into an oven.
Parked in the alleyway off Corniche al Basra Street, he adjusted his red keffiya, cocking it to one side of his head, and cracked the window. Briefly, the scent of turmeric teased his nostrils before the metallic smell of engine grease masked it. The sun struck the steel girders above the air-conditioned kiosks that were teeming with bargain hunters. Streets bustled with early morning traffic; horns honked.
Kazem’s shoulders sagged. He tilted his head back, momentarily distracted. He missed the old port city of Basra, the carts filled with melons and figs, adorned with striped canvas awnings. The fragrances of sumac and sweet nutmeg once drifted on the air; now the stink of gasoline overwhelmed the more delicate spices. He grunted. Nostalgia made him soft. He relit the stub of a cigarette he had stabbed out earlier.
Sunlight slanted between the buildings, hitting him squarely in the eyes. He winced, then cupped his hand above his brow and squinted ahead. Near the intersection of the alley and the street, a young mother and two small children, a boy and a girl, crossed the thoroughfare and headed towards Pareena’s Variety Store. The floor length folds of the woman’s coral abaya shimmered, as though in places copper thread streaked through the fabric. Vanity, and where would it get her? Coldly, he watched her open the door and usher her children into the shop. To his right, a double-parked delivery van, engine running, blocked traffic as the driver unloaded crates of leafy vegetables.
Kazem cranked the window down a bit further to let out more heat and smoke. A sand-colored Humvee stopped on the corner in front of him, engine idling. Saddi’s Coffee Shop stood adjacent to the local police station, a squat brick building with as much character as a cardboard box. Americans, come to buy coffee on the run. What did they know? There was a proud tradition in the consumption of coffee, the first cup always intended to be shared with the host, not picked up and gulped down at some godforsaken infidel army post. Kazem pursed his lips and spat on the pavement.
He glanced at his wristwatch. Almost eight. Flicking ash onto the sidewalk, he twisted the ignition key. The diesel sputtered to life, blue-black smoke spewing from the muffler. Kazem reached into the console for a cell phone, his thumb scrolling through the directory until he found the number he sought. He then eased the car into traffic and veered towards the highway.
In the rear view mirror, the young mother left the shop and stood framed in the shadow of the delivery truck. She scanned the street, as though unsure whether to turn left or right. The boy wrenched the handles of a yellow shopping bag away from his sister.
Kazem’s gaze slid back to the windshield before taking one last look in the rearview mirror. The door to Saddi’s opened and two soldiers, coffees in hand, returned to their armor-plated vehicle. Complacent fools. They imagined that soon they’d leave Basra to Iraqi security forces.
He pressed Send just as he surged towards the onramp.
The shock wave shuddered into the rear of his car as the explosion rocked the market. A mushroom cloud of dust and splinters engulfed the stores. Shattering glass and screams tore through streets thick with falling debris.
Kazem slowed, careful to avoid a swarm of people racing away from the devastation. The remnants of a charred yellow canvas tote fluttered into the gutter. He accelerated onto Highway 6, a long strip of asphalt that ran parallel to the Shatt al Arab waterway.
Kazem Al-Unistan rolled the window down completely and tossed the cell phone. It barely made a ripple in the thick, scummy water far below.

Chapter 1
Chatterton County, Virginia

Patrick Meagher, already showered and shaved, heard the side table alarm clock vibrate. He used the darn thing as a backup, but still it grated on his nerves, even after twenty-four years and ten months as Captain at Chatterton Fire Department. Late once, a day off with no pay. Twice, suspension for two weeks. Third strike, you’re out. He had never been late, not once. After all this time, he still couldn’t wait to get to work. He felt lucky. He, like every other firefighter at his station, loved what he did.
Forty-four years old, the younger of two firefighter sons, Patrick continued the tradition of their father, retired Fire Marshall William ‘Pops’ Meagher. Patrick headed up District 14’s Station and Hazardous Incident Team, routinely making life and death decisions in a split second. Wide set, gray-blue eyes, an ingenuous grin and irreverent sense of humor masked a tough veteran’s pragmatism. He had the body of a thirty-year old and worked hard to keep it in shape. Less concerned with aesthetics than the functional benefits of heavy lifting, he and his crew put themselves through a strenuous conditioning routine at the start of every shift.
Still damp, he tossed the towel and reached for his faded navy job shirt. The CFD crest emblazoned on the front had seen brighter days, but the white still stood out, the letters crisp. His favorite shirt that he’d worn when called to a house fire on South Street, it still bore a stain on the label where he’d scratched his neck with bloody fingers. He’d been cradling a baby girl, born outside in the yard while her mother lay unconscious. Patrick pulled on his fire-resistant work pants and stepped into his steel tipped boots, leaving the room without brushing his hair.
He met Kelly on the landing, and together they padded downstairs. He let her out and watched the Golden Lab stop at the willow tree before plunging into the lake. He laughed as she dashed out, shook a halo of spray onto grass that needed cutting, and galloped back towards him. Back inside, Patrick gave her a can of beef and rice, her favorite, and made coffee while she buried her snout in her food. He scribbled the day’s to-do list for his two teenage daughters, home for the weekend from James Madison University. They wouldn’t stir until noon. When awake, they filled the house that otherwise stood cavernous, even with Kelly following him around.
Sometimes Patrick imagined the house was haunted. After a difficult shift, the fragrances of cinnamon and roses lingered when he withdrew his hand from the banister on his way up to bed, as though his wife, Abbey, had recently touched it. She’d used some unpronounceable perfume, and at times it still surprised him. If he opened a long shut drawer in search of something lost, or paged through the last book she’d read, a sense of her caught him off guard. Only after she died did he study the words on the bottle and make sense of them. Ylang ylang.
He almost lost the house when the insurance pricks brought in specialists to ‘prove’ that Abbey’s cancer was a pre-existing condition. Claim Denied. Now, to keep his daughters in school, he worked more overtime shifts than any other officer in his district, and moonlighted as a computer geek.
After shouting goodbye up the staircase to his sleeping girls, he grabbed his keys from the peg by the front door, hopped into his pickup and headed out on the quiet streets of Grafton Lake in the direction of Interstate 95. Getting off the ramp at Exit 8, he cruised through the intersection of Ironbound Parkway and Jefferson Davis Highway, affectionately dubbed The Pike by Chatterton’s firefighters. Minutes later, he pulled into the parking lot of Fire Station 14.
The ‘Big House’ protected the most diverse district in Chatterton, Virginia, and as his brother, Battalion Chief Shane Meagher, supervisor of the southern district, had said a long time ago, “You just never know what to expect on The Pike.” From million dollar homes to countless dilapidated doublewides, seamy strip shopping centers to high-density industrial centers; they all relied on the big engines of District 14’s firehouse to watch their backs.
Dropping the bag that carried his helmet, turnout gear and mask by the front door to punch in the access code on the keypad, Patrick stopped for a moment to listen to the hum of morning rush hour and feel the sun on his face. The local citizenry, the ‘Pikanites’, were on the move. At any moment, one of them could trigger a life or death emergency call.
Just as the door swung open, the aggressive metallic buzz of the station’s Klaxon Horn, anchored to the block wall, reverberated through him, shattering the morning’s peace. Urgent, repetitive, it galvanized the firefighters into a collective surge of focus and energy.
Adrenalin still flooded Patrick’s system every time the alarm sounded. He charged down the hall into the apparatus bay and flung his canvas gear bag alongside Engine 14, unzipping it as Dan Rubin leaped into the driver’s seat, a half eaten Hardee’s sausage and egg biscuit stuffed into his mouth.
“What’s the matter, Danny?” Patrick said. “Alarm getting in the way of breakfast?” He laughed as the driver reached for the ignition switch and grumbled something that might have been, “Fuck you, Cap.”
Patrick hurried with his uniform, drawing up the bulky pants and tightening the suspenders before buckling his coat. He vaulted into the officer’s seat beside the driver and caught a whiff of sulphur, the smell of burning diesel fuel as the motor roared to life. He hung his helmet on the hook behind him. Bluish gray smoke curled from the tailpipe and spiraled upwards, pulled by the giant exhaust fans anchored to the ceiling. He barely got the radio headphones in place before the dispatcher’s voice filled his earpiece.
“Local alarm for Fire Engine Companies in Districts 14, 1, and 3, Truck 12, Truck 3, the Hazardous Incident Team, Battalion Chief 5, and the Mobile Command Post van; respond to 712 Ironbound Parkway, Criton Chemical Plant, for a fire at the loading dock. Time of dispatch is zero eight hundred hours.”
Criton was the largest employer in Chatterton County, with headquarters in Iran. The company manufactured ammonium nitrate for chemical fertilizer and cleaning products, and a fire at the plant was bad news. Three years ago, Criton had been the scene of a poisonous toxic spill. Five employees died and three firefighters had their lungs corroded, including Patrick’s racquetball partner, David Carsey. With only one lung left, his days on the job ended, and now he breathed with a respirator and tinkered with his antique VW Beetle.
Patrick turned in his seat. The two firefighters in the crew compartment behind him were strapping their self-contained breathing apparatus into place and positioning their headphones. He pressed the microphone switch. “Simons, Horvath, you guys ready to roll?”
They both nodded as Engine 14 began to pull out of the station. With a thousand gallons of water held in a tank beneath the hose bed, each of the engines carried 1500 feet of reinforced supply lines, 750 feet of double-jacketed attack hose, and a pair of cross laid quick strike lines above the engine coffin. He gave a thumbs-up to the Hazardous Material Team as their rig lumbered out beneath the station’s second bay door.
Next to it, in the third bay, Truck 14 with all its gear–ventilation fans, fire ground utility lights, forcible entry equipment and 100-foot aerial ladder–remained idle. Truck 14 usually worked alongside Engine 14, but today the three men and one woman assigned to it were nowhere in sight.
Patrick covered his mouthpiece and spoke directly to his driver. “Whoa, Dan, don’t tell me the truck squad’s been detailed to a different station today?”
“’Fraid so, Cap. The Fire Chief’s order on that came by e-mail just before you got here.”
Stanley Lowell, Chief Administrator of Fire and Emergency Medical Services, who wouldn’t know a hose from a hammer if his ass were on fire, made policy decisions without considering the full implications to the men and women he was ultimately responsible for. The Meagher clan had clashed with the mayor’s appointed lapdog several times, to their detriment.
Patrick turned to look out the window and swore quietly before turning back to the driver. “Okay, stay sharp, time to earn our pay.”
If this was a shit call, a routine truck fire, they’d be back in time for Dan Rubin to have his second greasy biscuit. But Patrick had to brace for a worker, a full-blown fire, and that meant they could be heading into a deathtrap.
The engine picked up speed and barreled down Ironbound Parkway, the piercing wail of its Federal Q siren parting cars like an axe splitting a log. At every intersection, three deafening blasts of the air horn nudged traffic out of their way. Patrick turned the volume knob on his head set.
Dispatcher Lynn Lukhart’s distinctive Louisiana drawl repeated the call information and acknowledged the replies of each officer in charge as they confirmed their assignments.
The radio hummed in Patrick’s ear.
“Battalion Chief 5 to Chatterton Dispatch.” Shane Meagher’s voice, cool and composed, filled the airwaves. “I’m already on Ironbound Parkway, about five minutes from Criton. I am responding.”
That’s good, Patrick thought. He and his brother had worked many calls together, including the three-alarm apartment fire on Duval Street just last week. He understood how Shane would think and knew how he’d react. Patrick could almost anticipate his every move.
Shane spoke again. “Chatterton Dispatch, I will be first on location, do you have any other information regarding this alarm?”
The line crackled. “Battalion 5 and all units en-route to Ironbound Parkway, we received a call on 9-1-1 from plant personnel that a fire started near a truck at the loading dock of the ammonium plant. Criton Chemicals Emergency Response Team was unable to contain the resulting fire. They evacuated the immediate area and advise they will meet you at Gate C.”
“Understood,” said Shane. “Dispatch, why isn’t Truck 14 responding?”
A moment of static filled the speaker, the radio transmission line open, but it took a couple of seconds for Lukhart to respond. “Uh…Fire Chief Lowell ordered Truck 14 out of service earlier, per his minimum staffing directive. That crew has been detailed to other stations and won’t be responding to Criton Chemical.”
Patrick knew Lukhart’s answer would piss his brother off. Shane’s silence could only mean one thing. Without the requisite manpower, he and his men faced certain delays, and significantly higher danger levels had to be expected.
This alarm was starting off bad. Patrick gritted his teeth. How bad, they’d soon find out.
Chapter 2
Chatteron County, Virginia

Shane Meagher, Patrick’s brother and Division Commander for the units responding to the fire at Criton, accelerated onto Highway 1. His heart rate quickened as he skirted the traffic that had pulled over to clear a path for him. Goddamn Lowell and his service cutbacks. He barely had enough guys to take on last month’s three-alarm on Brighton Avenue, when heavy fire at a five story apartment building blew out every window on the first two floors. Child’s play compared to what he now faced. If the fire had anything to do with Criton’s production of the highly explosive ammonium nitrate, Shane and his men had to hit it hard and fast. If they failed, it would turn deadly, and there was every chance they could all be blown to bits.
After more than twenty-five years with the department, Shane knew fire. He could read it, understood the way it breathed, what it fed on and what an appetite it had. This one might be the worst he’d ever faced. His shirtsleeve covered a foot long patch of burned tissue that reminded him, every time he looked at his watch or stepped in the shower, just how up-close and personal a fire could get. Hell, he almost lost his arm that day, but here he was, driving to the kind of monster he knew would spare nothing and no one in its path.
Shane tightened his grip on the steering wheel. Ahead of him, less than a mile away, a pillar of black smoke billowed above the horizon, dissipating at its peak to dab a murky swathe across the sky. If the flames spread beyond the loading dock and engulfed the depot, he would need all the manpower he could get, and then some. Making matters worse, the crew from Truck 14, the team that had developed Criton Chemical’s pre-fire plan that Shane would rely on to combat the blaze, was unavailable. If this alarm was as bad as he feared, those plans would be indispensable. With Truck 14 out of action, an already dangerous risk grew even higher.
After hurtling past run-down second-rate motels and abandoned businesses, Shane slowed as he drew up to the entrance of the plant and turned into the lot. Dense smoke shrouded the steel framework of the main manufacturing center alongside the facility’s storage cylinders. He parked upwind on top of a gradient that overlooked the storage depots of the industrial giant. Jamming the gearshift into park, he noted Criton’s flag flapping vigorously in the steady breeze, luckily heading straight towards the river and away from a nearby shopping center.
Shane grabbed the mic from the console. “This is Battalion 5 on scene at a large chemical plant with smoke showing in the area of the loading dock near the storage tanks. I will be in command of the Criton Incident.” He scanned the buildings ahead of him, concrete blocks that hunkered colorless in the early morning light. An orange glow suddenly flashed above one of the warehouses and doubled in size. He keyed the mic again. “Transmit a second alarm and dispatch our Operations Officer.” He would need to delegate fire ground responsibilities, so he could focus on strategy and coordinate tactics.
As if in response to Shane’s challenge, the hellish flicker countered. A red tongue exploded skyward and devoured a utility shed beside it, the heat wave rippling directly at Shane, who stood over five hundred yards away. “All personnel responding to Criton Chemical, switch to Fire Radio Channel B now.” He had to clear the main channel, intended for the dispatch of other alarms. Channel B would be solely dedicated to this predator.
Shane stepped out and hustled to the rear of his vehicle. He dropped the tailgate and hastily donned his protective fire gear. As he grabbed his clipboard, a similarly clad, disheveled figure scurried up the hill towards him.
“We tried to get a handle on it, fought it for about fifteen minutes,” the heavily suited man huffed. “The truck was being loaded. I’m not sure exactly what went on. It happened kinda fast. Most of the guys in our Emergency Response Team were scattered at different parts of the plant and…”
An enormous groan, metal grating against metal, stopped him dead in his tracks. Both men turned abruptly. Less than a quarter of a mile away, unprotected steel I-beams, girders supporting a crane, glowed bright red from unbearable temperatures attacking from beneath. Sagging in their centers and unable to withstand the intense heat, the metal beams twisted away from their supports. The hoist thundered to the ground, consumed in a huge fireball.
The man resumed his nervous babble.
“Stop.” Shane held up his hand. “Who are you, what do you do, and tell me what you do know.”
“Uh…yeah, Sam Collier,” the man wheezed. “I’m the shift leader for Criton’s Fire Brigade, you know, our Emergency Response Team. I’ve only been doing this for two years, never had this happen, usually just small spills and some decontamination stuff. We got a truck on fire by the loading dock that stands at this end of the pier. I think its starting to burn real good, and the flames might get to heating them storage tanks if it gets outta hand.” Collier shifted from one foot to the other, raking fingers through his hair. “Man, am I glad to see you.”
Shane stood stone-faced and listened to the first responder’s wild account. Collier paused for breath to fish a cigarette out of his breast pocket. It fell onto the tarmac as the task force of three diesel powered engines roared up, emergency lights swirling, led by Engine 14 and followed by one truck, the Hazardous Material truck and Mobile Command Post van. Shane acknowledged Patrick and barked orders into his mic, strategically positioning the vehicles to attack the fire from every tactical angle.
A firefighter from each of the engines yanked the end of a water supply line and jumped from the tailboard to screw the brass couplings onto freestanding fire hydrants. Once attached, the engines rumbled into their assigned positions, the heavy double-jacketed supply lines hitting the ground as the vehicles pulled away and the hoses stretched taut. Firefighters, each laboring with eighty pounds of gear, grabbed attack lines and prepared to do battle with the wall of flames that had consumed the remainder of the loading dock, the heat intensifying every minute. With all the noise and activity, Shane never heard the hiss of the Command Post Van’s air brakes as it came to a stop ten yards from where he stood.
The driver, Lieutenant Jerry Pruter, jumped from the open door. “What can I do, boss?”
After a busy overtime shift the night before, Shane felt like he needed to sleep for a week. But his brain had kicked into autopilot, years of experience taking control, and the fatigue retreated as Pruter awaited instruction. “Jerry, we’re going to need the Hazardous Materials Safety Data Sheets for the chemicals used here. Also, get me the complex pre-plan so we have locations of everything at Criton. This here is Sam Collier.”
The two shook hands. The visibly agitated fire brigade leader had trouble standing still.
“I want you to stick with the Lieutenant, Mr. Collier,” Shane said, “but first, where’s Hassan Muhktar? According to Criton’s operating procedures, he’s our liaison, supposed to meet us here in the event of an emergency.” Shane and his crew relied on Criton’s CEO for vital information regarding the plant and its output. Hassan Muhktar’s absence would lead to inevitable delays they could ill afford.
“I don’t know where he is. He’s usually here by 8. It’s now 10 after.” Collier’s Adam’s apple bobbed several times. “I tried to raise him on the hand-held radio, but he never picked up. Usually he’s the one bitching at me for not answering fast enough.” He tugged at his collar as if struggling to breathe.
Shane’s eyes darted between the Command Post van and the two men. “ASAP, Jerry…”
Pruter got the message. He and Collier trotted to the van and disappeared inside, just as a loud crash came from the dock. Shane whirled. The force of several roof timbers collapsing into the fire created a mushroom of angry yellow and white sparks, and rocketed a three hundred foot column of embers upward. The glow had blown up into a massive red inferno.
Pruter reappeared thirty seconds later and threw up a small folding table. “Here you go, Chief.”
Collier spread out the site plans, Hazardous Materials Safety Data Sheets and colored markers before backing away.
Shane grabbed a felt tip pen and highlighted the critical structures under attack. He flashed through each section of the chemical data pages, circling the last lines in black.
Without question, under emergency conditions, the Criton plant is the most dangerous life and property target hazard in all of Chatterton County.
He could feel the temperature rising with each passing moment, a time bomb with the detonator winding down to zero. The fire would soon hunger for the cylinders of explosive nitrates.
Shane looked at the task force once more. Where the hell is Truck 3? His eyes burned. He smeared the sweat from his brow with a dirty sleeve and checked his watch. The delay caused by the Fire Chief’s staffing cancellation made the minute hand seem like a high-speed propeller. He needed protection from the master streams of the first alarm truck companies, both of them, and the huge volumes of water they could provide from the nozzles attached at the tips of their 100-foot ladders.
He loosened his helmet strap. His head began to pound. Galveston, Texas. Years ago. A ship, the Grandcamp, laden with ammonium nitrate and full of diesel fuel, caught fire and exploded soon after. The powerful detonation incinerated thousands. The shock wave obliterated the busy port of Texas City.
The sound of a car engine twenty feet away short-circuited the nightmare.
“What are your orders, Chief?” Captain Mike Pentino hip-checked his door shut and walked briskly over to join Shane, notepad in hand.
“Pentino, you’re my Operations Officer. Take a look at this.” Shane zeroed in on the complex drawings on the table. “Right now I have Engine 14 setting up dual water supply lines to feed the elevated master stream here.” He jabbed the felt tip on the map between the fire and the nitrate cylinders. “The other two Engine companies are on these hydrants using their attack lines. When the second alarm units get here, I want them in a semi-circle between the fire and the ammonium nitrate. We have to get copious, and I mean copious amounts of water onto those storage tanks and keep them cool at all costs. Tell Captain Meagher of Engine 14 that I want a primary search of the fire area to account for all employees. And I want it done now.”
Shane turned his attention to Collier. The man looked dazed, chain-smoking. Three filters already lay at his feet. “Alright, now, Mr. Collier, what else can you tell me? I need to know exactly what happened…Mr. Collier?” The emergency responder jerked at the mention of his name. “We don’t have a lot of time.”
Collier coughed spasmodically. He hacked it out as he began to speak. ”We had one of the big rigs come in and park near the dock, guy said he was to receive a load of nitrate. I personally didn’t talk to him, but that happens from time to time…”
Shane’s irritated look cut him off.
Collier took another long pull on his Marlboro. “Ebi was on the forklift, and I was in the guard shack checking the invoice. I thought I heard a sharp grating sound, and then Ebi comes busting through the door shouting that he backed the forklift into the trailer and broke open a couple bags from the pallet. He said that when he repositioned the loader, he scraped the metal grate, sparking a fire on the right side of the dock. He said he pretty much emptied the water can extinguisher, but couldn’t get it out.”
“What material were you loading?”
Collier rooted through his pocket and produced a crumpled shipping order. “One hundred pound burlap wrapped packets of ammonium nitrate fertilizer. We tried to put the fire out, but the red ring on the hydrant in the yard showed that it was out of service. It really slowed us down; gave the fire a hell of a head start. It was weird, because I checked the maintenance log for repair items when I clocked in, and nothing was written down.” Collier finished the remainder of his cigarette in one drag and threw the burnt filter onto a patch of gravel.
Shane put his hand on the man’s shoulder, “Okay, calm down. No one’s blaming you.” He spotted Pentino. “Mike, are all employees accounted for?”
“Yes, Chief. And we’re going to be cooling those storage tanks closest to the loading dock in a couple more minutes. But Chief.” Pentino didn’t blink. “It looks like the fire may be spreading to the rest of the storage depot and the south end of the pier. If that happens, those nearby storage tanks are going to blow because of it, and they’re storing combustible fertilizer and industrial grade nitrate.”
Shane pivoted away from Pentino, mic in hand. He licked dry lips. “Criton Command to Chatterton Communications Center, have the Police Department block all roads north of the intersection of Highway 1 and Willes Road.”
The memory of the deadliest industrial accident in United States history, one that wiped out an entire seaport, caused the muscles in Shane’s neck to spasm and lock up. If we don’t get a handle on this soon…
Pentino adjusted his portable radio headset. “Finally! Chief, Truck 3 is on scene and reports second-alarm units are pulling in.”
“Get that second master stream flowing from its ladder tip immediately. I want more water on this sonofabitch right now.”
“You got it, Chief.” Pentino reached for the mic coiled to his radio.
Shane stopped him. “Tell them to hustle. We have to control this soon, or I’ll order those engines to pump water by themselves, leave them unattended, and evacuate everyone. Ten minutes, Mike, that’s it.”
Chapter 3
Criton Chemical Office, Richmond, Virginia

At the headquarters of Criton Chemical Company in downtown Richmond, Hassan Muhktar wedged the phone between his shoulder and cheek. He adjusted his starched shirtsleeves, aligned both black onyx cufflinks, and checked his watch. “It’s not your concern where I am. I’ll be there in about a half hour. It should be safe by then.” He put the phone down and turned to the woman seated across a sprawling chestnut desk. “That was Sam Collier. The fire’s raging out of control at the loading dock by the pier.” He chuckled. “The fire trucks are only now putting water on it. Cancel all appointments, but take care of the delivery.” He narrowed his eyes and stared across his plush office at the small figure who sat in a straight backed chair facing him. For no good reason, he wanted to pound her into the wall. Her timid manner annoyed him, the way a rodent irritates a well-fed cat.
“Have you got that, Nadia?” The businessman snatched his pack of Bahman’s and clamped one of the cigarettes between his teeth. He thumbed his monogrammed silver lighter and blew a ribbon of smoke at his executive assistant. “Did you hear me? Yes? No? Earth to Nadia…”
His wife looked up from her notes. She covered her mouth and coughed lightly.
He glared at her. Arranged by his father, Sheik Abbas Muhktar, in Tehran years ago, the marriage had placed at Hassan’s disposal a perfect administrative assistant. Nadia managed his transactions with proficiency and was silently complicit in all his dealings. He had lost interest in her a couple of years ago, after repeated efforts to produce an heir failed. Now she was little more than a corporate asset.
The small woman sat ramrod straight and nodded once. “Coordinate the upcoming delivery to the Persian Gulf of ammonium nitrate fertilizer onboard the Orient Star with the sheik.” She looked up. “And what of his request yesterday that you meet with his emissary?”
Hassan wrenched his jacket from the closet and whirled abruptly. “I’ll address that personally. Go.” He flicked his wrist towards the double doors and waited until she closed them softly behind her.
Crossing the room to the small bar at the far end of the office, he grabbed a bottle of Jack Daniels, poured two fingers’ worth into a tumbler and swallowed it in a single gulp before following her into the reception area, where he summoned the elevator. Once inside the glass and chrome interior, he studied his reflection and admired the hand-tailored Brooks Brothers suit Cleaves Limited had delivered the previous day. Stroking a manicured finger along his chevron moustache, a habit he’d formed since hair first sprouted on his face, he smoothed the bristles over the vague remnants of a slight harelip, then turned away to watch the lights for each floor blink as he descended into the garage.
Hassan made his way to his car, spraying two short bursts of breath freshener onto his tongue. He accelerated when he reached the highway and leveled off once the Lincoln Navigator hit eighty. To the southeast, a column of smoke drifted in front of the sun.
His father would be pleased. Hassan would relay the news to the sheik once he’d spoken to the mayor. He tilted the visor down and again fingered his moustache, a wry smile forming.