Revenge, Chapter 1. The Diplomat

Filed Under Creative Writing, Suspense | Leave a Comment

A Book by EZPowell

Chapter 1. The Diplomat

The dark suited, tanned, sharp Arabic featured man strolled into the office as the phone rang on his hip. He continued walking, leisurely taking his time. The phone would continue singing at him. He had the time. His dark suit and aquiline, almost regal nose and features were exaggerated by the lightly colored pin striped shirt, accentuated by the polka dot yellow tie and matching handkerchief in the top left breast pocket of his suit jacket. He was so neatly and dandily decked out he was positively cloaked in the mystique of wealth and influence. He exuded an aura of regality. The man practically emanated power.

He held himself upright and focused as he strolled calmly and efficiently across the richly carpeted floor. The diplomat was appointed one of the most important posts his country had to offer, he was in the prime of his life, at the pinnacle of his career.

Reaching the desk he raised for the phone languidly, almost nonchalantly. He flipped the case open, switching the phone on and placed it to his ear.

“Yes”, he said.

There was a brief silence.

“The carriers of death have crossed and are ready. You have only to give the order”.

“Thank-you”, said the diplomat and hung up the phone.

“Now it would all start”, he thought. “The beginning of the end, the only question was who’s beginning and end would it be?”

He placed the phone back on his hip. Surely they might have taken precautions. All cellular traffic could be traced. They had insisted not on this small phone they had given him.

“The French are not as fanatical as the Americans. After all we didn’t attack and destroy buildings in Paris now did we? Why should the French care? They only ever take care of themselves. That is why they have survived as a colonial power for so long – they upset everyone and nobody, all at the same time. They are a little like the Swiss. Nobody hurts the Swiss because they have everybody’s money. The French will sell anyone weapons. They don’t care.”

The diplomat had listened calmly, over a year ago in that secret room, the operation well into the planning stages. These attacks took so long to plan. Such care had to be taken. The enemy was a giant, when provoked a brutal giant, but with a soft underbelly. The bigger the giant the harder it is to hit but the harder it will fall. Now he must make his own report up through the chain of command and pass on his instructions. He stood up and lightly brushed his coat, fastidiously searching for stray pieces of lint of which he found none. His servants were thorough. They dressed him, fed him, organized and arranged his life and fed his unusual desires for female companionship. And when he got a little rough with a western woman, most of whom he absolutely hated, the servants covered for him, covering his tracks, removing all traces of her presence. He needed constant female companions and he especially adored the most passionate ones. But he hated himself for it and sometimes demonstrated his need for absolution by hurting them, sometimes to the extreme. Perhaps this was just part of his perversion. He understood this perfectly well. He had a degree in psychology from a top American university. However, that was his persona, and those were his roots and the way he was taught as a young boy. As a child, his Muslim teachers were brutal and abusive in the extreme. Any slight or even thought of wrong doing, or not following the teachings of the Koran to the letter was punished, and usually with abject brutality. He still had scars on his back, arms and knuckles from the brutal beatings of those formative but educative years. He was a committed slave, committed to the cause of maintaining his heritage, whatever had to be done to preserve his heritage he would aid his brothers. In short, he was born, bred and raised a fanatical follower. He appeared an austere and authoritative leader but he was still a follower in many respects.

“Yes … God is truly great. And today he is greater. In a few days he would demonstrate his power over the Infidel.” His country had been invaded years ago by fast food joints and coffee shops selling tasteless heated water in styro-foam cups that many despised but many indulged in. His country had been invaded years ago and that invasion was still continuing. His heritage was being invaded in the name of progress so they said. His country was being invaded by the Infidel. With them they brought their decadence. They had raped his country and his fellows for centuries. It was time to repay them for thousand years of insults (MNORE INFO – when were the crusades?), from the Crusades as they called it, to McDonalds and cheap coffee shops, with colors and lights and other men’s wives and possessions without headdresses, something a man should never see.

The cell phone snugly against his hip again, his jacket buttoned and lint free, he stood up, ready to do his duty. He marched quickly around the desk, towards the door, opening it in one swift movement and exited the door rapidly, not bothering to close the door. He knew he would probably not see that office again. He had a task to do. He headed for the exit, nodding to the concierge and security guards at the entrance to the building and walked rapidly out into the midday sun of Paris, city of lovers and beauty. He preferred American girls, the younger the better, European travelers. He loved to take to unspeakable heights. Then his hatred of them and ultimately himself would force him to stoop to unspeakable lows to account for his unforgivable perversions. He thought perhaps that he saw those pretty young, happy, bubbly American girls like the Nazi’s had looked at young Jewish girls. So desirable but not to be touched, and when touched to be eradicated as a scourge only to bring further temptation.