Pacitalia
28-02-2006, 06:02
The following takes place between 12:00 am and 1:00 am. Events occur in real time.
12:00:00... 12:00:01... 12:00:02... 12:00:03...
Istanbul, Istanbul province, Khailfah al-Muslimeen
The cavernous halls connecting the ultramodern headquarters of the Al Muslimeen Joint Stock Oil Company glistened as midnight moonlight cascaded gently over the city of Istanbul. The heavily polished tile floors reflected the darkness of the crystal clear night as it hung majestically over the calm waters of the Bosphorus. The white-walled halls, adorned with artwork of various periods and lined with lively vegetation in pewter planters, were deserted, all the staff at home sleeping, the janitorial shifts now finished for the night.
At the front entrance to the massive complex, the security guard on nightshift sat in his hard plastic chair, scanning all 40 cameras on his TV mount for any signs of suspicious activity. On top of the state-of-the-art NVPX televisual assistance network, Al Muslimeen also maintained a tabular microvibration network to ward off audio espionage, and a failsafe laser grid, which guarded the outer walls and allowed the company to staff minimal security at night. In fact, the security guard was the only man on-shift in the entire eight-acre complex in Istanbul's trendy Karaköy neighbourhood.
The security guard checked his watch impatiently. 12:01, it read. His shift ended in 29 minutes, and he could barely wait. His thoughts of retiring on the couch with a döner kebab sandwich and a thick bar of Turkish Delight while watching Pacitalian sitcoms were quickly replaced by the rattling of the wrought-iron front gates.
He shot up, unshouldering his M4 carbine and waving it at the dishevelled man behind the gates. "Hangi parti sen arzu, kic?" What do you want, you bum? One eyebrow was cocked upward, his expression wary.
The homeless man stumbled forward, crashing into the gates and sending them into a light shudder, the hinges rattling. He replied in the same colloquial Turkish. "Please, sir. Please." The man was visibly struggling with something; he appeared extremely drunk. "Could I have a light for my cigarette?"
"Not on your life," the guard said, suspicious. He could smell the dank, pine stench of resinated wine on the man's breath even from ten feet away. "Move along, now, or I'll be forced to use this thing."
The man's eyes widened slightly as he peered down at the locked and loaded carbine sitting faithfully in the guard's hands, almost craving to be commanded. "Sorry, please, sir. I just would like, please, light my cigarette, sir, please?" He shuffled closer up to the gate, and the guard's grip on his carbine tightened.
The guard stood there, his eyes now narrowed, staring at the pitiful man in his dirty clothes, the stench almost overpowering now. He hesitated, then retreated into the guard post and emerged with a matchbook. Striking one on the flint strip, he walked up to the man who now had a floppy homemade cigarette hanging lopsided out of the corner of his chapped mouth. He lit the cigarette for the man through the rectangular bars of the gate and stood back, watching as the man took a pull of Turkish tobacco.
"Ahhh, thank you, sir. Your service will not be forgotten." The drunk homeless man's smile was the last thing the guard saw. A 12.7mm NATO-standard bullet creased his forehead at three times the speed of sound, pulverising his brain and shattering the back of his skull as it exited his cranial cavity and pocked the pavement at a forty-four degree angle behind him. The guard crumpled in a lifeless heap right next to the gate and the homeless man outside stood, gratefully drinking in this instant revocation of life.
He turned around and smiled slightly as he watched a man disassemble a large-calibre sniper rifle on the opposite rooftop. The man dropped to his stomach and using a hook, fished the keyring off the guard's belt. He stood up and stripped out of his drunken homeless costume, ripping off the smarmy hobo's moustache and beard, and revealing a crisp, charcoal pinstripe suit with an ivory pouffe, gray shirt and striped ivory tie. He pulled a matching fedora out of the balloon-like costume and placed it firmly on his head, the front rim angled down, shadowing out his leaden eyes. Pressing a button on the electronic keyring, he waited with bated breath as the ebony gates opened and his destiny appeared in front of him, the length of pavement the only obstacle left to overtake.
The man was careful not to get any blood on his expensive Armani suit, dragging the guard's body into the bushes. He yanked a nearby garden hose over to the pavement and hastily washed away the bloody residue. He wiped it for fingerprints with an eyeglass cloth and half-walked, half-jogged up the pavement, whistling softly to himself. We are almost there. Our task is almost at an end, and success is ours. He grinned as he used a couriered keycard to enter the main complex and began his traverse down the long hallway to the destination.
12:06:24... 12:06:25... 12:06:26... 12:06:27...
Two delicate knocks at the imposing walnut door was all it took. The CEO of Al Muslimeen Joint Stock Oil Company was at the threshold in less than three seconds, the door slightly creaking as it swung open on its hinges.
"Ah, good, you made it," Yusuf al-Azmah sighed with relief as the assassin entered the office. "Come in, come in." He made sure there was no one coming, and quickly shut and bolted down the heavy door, the iron floor latch clanking down with a muffled "tink" sound.
The shadowed man sat down in the comfortable plush chair while al-Azmah returned to his position behind the large wood desk in his comfortable, study-like office, sitting behind two inches of bulletproof glass and afforded with a fantastic view of Aya Sofya and the Blue Mosque. Books lined the shelves, and behind on the mantle, a sailboat in a bottle proudly supplemented a portrait of the late Sultan Mustafa bin Asad. al-Azmah half-collapsed back into his chair but he looked confident and excited.
"So, what kind of hell should we raise in the world today, Mr Maracazo?" al-Azmah said, grinning mischievously like a schoolboy.
The Pacitalian's facial expression was less than amused but he sighed and continued. "Everything we planned has been put in place. You just have to say the word." He lit a second cigarette and inhaled the sweet smoke of the myrrh-tinged tobacco. The smoke came out in rings, delicately holding their shape as they sailed slowly through the heavy Istanbul air. "We have manoeuvred carefully enough that there should be no problem. Success is virtually guaranteed at this point." He took another pull from the long cigarette.
"Excellent, excellent," al-Azmah said, grinning wider than before and rubbing his hands together. "You know how I love good news, heh!"
Maracazo sat, the cigarette between his second and third fingers on his right hand, with a bemused expression plastered blatantly over his rough, rugged Pacitalian face. His chiseled chin pushed outwardly slightly as though he was disgusted by al-Azmah's overzealous persona. There will be time to celebrate later, Maracazo thought to himself. He shook his head very lightly, got up and moved to the bulletproof glass, staring out at the Blue Mosque, its carved features highlighted beautifully by angelic floodlights.
"What will you do when this is done, Maracazo?" al-Azmah said suddenly.
Maracazo turned slightly, but paused. "I will have a better idea of that in exactly twenty-four hours. You have my cell phone number. Remember to use a secure channel and do not contact me from this point on unless it is absolutely necessary. I am more than happy to do your bidding... at the right price... but I can handle it without your assistance from now until the end of it. I bid you goodnight." He extinguished the cigarette in the ashtray, unhooked the door latch, opened the heavy door and walked down the hallway, a trail of smoke hanging precariously in the air.
al-Azmah stared ahead, unable to comprehend how different the world would look in just twenty-four hours. He sat there, aroused by the fact that he was about to manipulate two governments into wiping each other's states off the map, and excited by the power he now held, thanks to Maracazo. He leaned back and began to imagine the possibilities that were being laid out for him like bricks on a path...
12:14:57... 12:14:58... 12:14:59... 12:15:00.
12:00:00... 12:00:01... 12:00:02... 12:00:03...
Istanbul, Istanbul province, Khailfah al-Muslimeen
The cavernous halls connecting the ultramodern headquarters of the Al Muslimeen Joint Stock Oil Company glistened as midnight moonlight cascaded gently over the city of Istanbul. The heavily polished tile floors reflected the darkness of the crystal clear night as it hung majestically over the calm waters of the Bosphorus. The white-walled halls, adorned with artwork of various periods and lined with lively vegetation in pewter planters, were deserted, all the staff at home sleeping, the janitorial shifts now finished for the night.
At the front entrance to the massive complex, the security guard on nightshift sat in his hard plastic chair, scanning all 40 cameras on his TV mount for any signs of suspicious activity. On top of the state-of-the-art NVPX televisual assistance network, Al Muslimeen also maintained a tabular microvibration network to ward off audio espionage, and a failsafe laser grid, which guarded the outer walls and allowed the company to staff minimal security at night. In fact, the security guard was the only man on-shift in the entire eight-acre complex in Istanbul's trendy Karaköy neighbourhood.
The security guard checked his watch impatiently. 12:01, it read. His shift ended in 29 minutes, and he could barely wait. His thoughts of retiring on the couch with a döner kebab sandwich and a thick bar of Turkish Delight while watching Pacitalian sitcoms were quickly replaced by the rattling of the wrought-iron front gates.
He shot up, unshouldering his M4 carbine and waving it at the dishevelled man behind the gates. "Hangi parti sen arzu, kic?" What do you want, you bum? One eyebrow was cocked upward, his expression wary.
The homeless man stumbled forward, crashing into the gates and sending them into a light shudder, the hinges rattling. He replied in the same colloquial Turkish. "Please, sir. Please." The man was visibly struggling with something; he appeared extremely drunk. "Could I have a light for my cigarette?"
"Not on your life," the guard said, suspicious. He could smell the dank, pine stench of resinated wine on the man's breath even from ten feet away. "Move along, now, or I'll be forced to use this thing."
The man's eyes widened slightly as he peered down at the locked and loaded carbine sitting faithfully in the guard's hands, almost craving to be commanded. "Sorry, please, sir. I just would like, please, light my cigarette, sir, please?" He shuffled closer up to the gate, and the guard's grip on his carbine tightened.
The guard stood there, his eyes now narrowed, staring at the pitiful man in his dirty clothes, the stench almost overpowering now. He hesitated, then retreated into the guard post and emerged with a matchbook. Striking one on the flint strip, he walked up to the man who now had a floppy homemade cigarette hanging lopsided out of the corner of his chapped mouth. He lit the cigarette for the man through the rectangular bars of the gate and stood back, watching as the man took a pull of Turkish tobacco.
"Ahhh, thank you, sir. Your service will not be forgotten." The drunk homeless man's smile was the last thing the guard saw. A 12.7mm NATO-standard bullet creased his forehead at three times the speed of sound, pulverising his brain and shattering the back of his skull as it exited his cranial cavity and pocked the pavement at a forty-four degree angle behind him. The guard crumpled in a lifeless heap right next to the gate and the homeless man outside stood, gratefully drinking in this instant revocation of life.
He turned around and smiled slightly as he watched a man disassemble a large-calibre sniper rifle on the opposite rooftop. The man dropped to his stomach and using a hook, fished the keyring off the guard's belt. He stood up and stripped out of his drunken homeless costume, ripping off the smarmy hobo's moustache and beard, and revealing a crisp, charcoal pinstripe suit with an ivory pouffe, gray shirt and striped ivory tie. He pulled a matching fedora out of the balloon-like costume and placed it firmly on his head, the front rim angled down, shadowing out his leaden eyes. Pressing a button on the electronic keyring, he waited with bated breath as the ebony gates opened and his destiny appeared in front of him, the length of pavement the only obstacle left to overtake.
The man was careful not to get any blood on his expensive Armani suit, dragging the guard's body into the bushes. He yanked a nearby garden hose over to the pavement and hastily washed away the bloody residue. He wiped it for fingerprints with an eyeglass cloth and half-walked, half-jogged up the pavement, whistling softly to himself. We are almost there. Our task is almost at an end, and success is ours. He grinned as he used a couriered keycard to enter the main complex and began his traverse down the long hallway to the destination.
12:06:24... 12:06:25... 12:06:26... 12:06:27...
Two delicate knocks at the imposing walnut door was all it took. The CEO of Al Muslimeen Joint Stock Oil Company was at the threshold in less than three seconds, the door slightly creaking as it swung open on its hinges.
"Ah, good, you made it," Yusuf al-Azmah sighed with relief as the assassin entered the office. "Come in, come in." He made sure there was no one coming, and quickly shut and bolted down the heavy door, the iron floor latch clanking down with a muffled "tink" sound.
The shadowed man sat down in the comfortable plush chair while al-Azmah returned to his position behind the large wood desk in his comfortable, study-like office, sitting behind two inches of bulletproof glass and afforded with a fantastic view of Aya Sofya and the Blue Mosque. Books lined the shelves, and behind on the mantle, a sailboat in a bottle proudly supplemented a portrait of the late Sultan Mustafa bin Asad. al-Azmah half-collapsed back into his chair but he looked confident and excited.
"So, what kind of hell should we raise in the world today, Mr Maracazo?" al-Azmah said, grinning mischievously like a schoolboy.
The Pacitalian's facial expression was less than amused but he sighed and continued. "Everything we planned has been put in place. You just have to say the word." He lit a second cigarette and inhaled the sweet smoke of the myrrh-tinged tobacco. The smoke came out in rings, delicately holding their shape as they sailed slowly through the heavy Istanbul air. "We have manoeuvred carefully enough that there should be no problem. Success is virtually guaranteed at this point." He took another pull from the long cigarette.
"Excellent, excellent," al-Azmah said, grinning wider than before and rubbing his hands together. "You know how I love good news, heh!"
Maracazo sat, the cigarette between his second and third fingers on his right hand, with a bemused expression plastered blatantly over his rough, rugged Pacitalian face. His chiseled chin pushed outwardly slightly as though he was disgusted by al-Azmah's overzealous persona. There will be time to celebrate later, Maracazo thought to himself. He shook his head very lightly, got up and moved to the bulletproof glass, staring out at the Blue Mosque, its carved features highlighted beautifully by angelic floodlights.
"What will you do when this is done, Maracazo?" al-Azmah said suddenly.
Maracazo turned slightly, but paused. "I will have a better idea of that in exactly twenty-four hours. You have my cell phone number. Remember to use a secure channel and do not contact me from this point on unless it is absolutely necessary. I am more than happy to do your bidding... at the right price... but I can handle it without your assistance from now until the end of it. I bid you goodnight." He extinguished the cigarette in the ashtray, unhooked the door latch, opened the heavy door and walked down the hallway, a trail of smoke hanging precariously in the air.
al-Azmah stared ahead, unable to comprehend how different the world would look in just twenty-four hours. He sat there, aroused by the fact that he was about to manipulate two governments into wiping each other's states off the map, and excited by the power he now held, thanks to Maracazo. He leaned back and began to imagine the possibilities that were being laid out for him like bricks on a path...
12:14:57... 12:14:58... 12:14:59... 12:15:00.