Hayden Stone's would be assassins plot while dining on Middle Eastern food.
Rami Abdul Marwan and Dokka Zarov arrived at the Middle Eastern grocery, across the street from Hayden Stone’s apartment, a little past midnight. Babu, the short nervous owner, greeted the two at the top of the stairway, and then led them into the cramped room.
Rami looked around the bright, white-painted walls similar to any room found in Beirut. It was plain all the furniture, chairs, and low tables were imported. The only thing Italian was a fat bottle of opened Chianti on a table next to the door leading to the kitchen. The heavy smells of food cooking on the stove mingled with the room’s oppressive temperature.
“You were not followed here?” Babu whispered.
“Of course not,” Dokka said, dropping his duffle bag on the floor. “What’s for dinner?”
“The Italians are very good.” Babu went to the window and pulled back the curtain. “They have spies and ears everywhere.”
“Get away from the window,” Dokka said, lighting a cigarette. “Doctor,” he said to Rami. “This is Babu. A trusted comrade.” Then, speaking next to Babu’s ear, “And a very cautious one.” He hugged the little man, dropping ashes on his shoulder. “Now get us some food. You are a grocer, no? We haven’t eaten since Brindisi.”
As the worried man hurried to the kitchen, Dokka called to him to prepare enough food for five more men. “The others are downstairs with the cabbages.”
Dokka motioned to Rami to sit with him on the settee brocaded with an Arabic motif. Seated, he leaned close to Rami and spoke in a low voice. “The plan is going well. Somewhat.”
“What do you mean, somewhat?”
Dokka thought a moment. “Abdul Wahab is not here.”
“You said he had escaped and would meet us here for the attack.”
Dokka pulled out his cellphone and looked at it. “Wahab called an hour ago and said that he went back to Villefranche.” He paused as if trying to make sense of what Wahab had said. “Our rich Arab friend advised that an opportunity had fallen into his lap.” He looked at Rami. “You understand that phrase?”
“Of course.” Rami’s previous sense of ease with the operation— developed after watching Dokka handle the team on the ship and then organize the quick road trip to Florence—lessened. “How does that affect our killing the American?”
Dokka flipped the phone in the air. “No effect.”
Babu and a boy came in with a tray of muhammara, a Syrian mezze of puréed red peppers and toasted walnuts, spread with pomegranate molasses. Another tray with lamb kebabs, yogurt, and warm bread was placed on the coffee table in front of them. They took more trays of food downstairs to the five other men who would sleep in the storage room.
Dokka praised the meal and then asked for some Chianti. “Do you drink, Doctor?”
Rami shook his head. He dipped a piece of bread in the dip and found it didn’t have the balance of sweetness and spice he experienced in Aleppo. Moreover, the walnuts tasted burned. Babu was a Syrian, but from Damascus, and didn’t have the gift of Aleppo cooking.Dokka gulped down half a glass of wine and then scooped up the spread with a torn piece of bread. Rami felt his companion’s glare that accompanied a snarl. “We hit tomorrow at midnight. At the same time the Italians set off their New Year’s Eve fireworks, we do the same with our guns and bombs.”
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