The Athena Dictum

By Joseph Cottereaux

Right out of The Athena Algorithm, Michael Robert Devlin, M.R. to his friends, is the newest member of Outrider, an ultra-secret United States intelligence-gathering group. Created by the late Richard M. Nixon while Vice-President under President Eisenhower, Outrider works in the darkest shadows of the international covert community. The Athena Dictum is an intelligence tool developed by Outrider that creates a Predictive Index to forecast the potential outcome of international conflict and cooperation. The Athena Dictum knows the probabilities.

Working undercover at Switzerland based Nyon Global Corporation (NGC), Devlin's backyard to collect raw information and implement Presidential policy is the Middle East and Europe. By gun, knife, and bare hands, Devlin leaves a trail of retaliatory death and destruction across the regions. With more twists and turns than a narrow Swiss mountain road, Devlin engages in dangerous, life-threatening clandestine operations with a morally flexible attitude.

The women are smart, gorgeous, and lethal. Nonstop gut wrenching action blended with historical facts, politicians that changed the world, real locations, and some of the deadliest men and woman on the planet. The Athena Dictum!

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: May 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9781645701088

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Disclaimer

THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION.  Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner.  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, was used in a purely fictional context and used as points of reference from a historical perspective.

This book/eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.  This book/eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people or entities.  If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient.  If you are reading this book/eBook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to the author and purchase your own copy.  Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

ISBN: 978-1-64570-108-8

Copyright © 2019, Joseph Cottereaux

Ver. 1.0

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Special thanks go out to: J.R., Robert, and Walter.

Dedication

In honor of those members of the Central Intelligence Agency, who gave their lives in the service of their country.  For all those who died on September 11, 2001.  In honor of those who have been killed since September 11, 2001, who gave their lives in the service of their country.

CIA Memorial Wall

All men dream, but not equally.  Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds wake in the day to find that it was vanity; but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act their dreams with open eyes, to make it possible. - Seven Pillars of Wisdom (1922) by T.E. Lawrence

Table of Contents

Paris of the Middle East - Beirut, Lebanon

Recovery at The Estate - Nyon, Switzerland

Back into the Fire – Beirut, Lebanon

Washington - District of Columbia, USA

The Deal - Geneva, Switzerland & Baghdad, Iraq

Battle Preparations - Nyon, Switzerland & Lake Balaton, Hungary

The Battle of The Estate - Nyon, Switzerland

Ambush in the Lebanon Mountains - Lebanon, Hotel Crime - Győr, Hungary, Geneva & Nyon - Switzerland

Battleground – Europe

Shopping – Amsterdam, The Netherlands, Cleanup – London, United Kingdom

Bloodbath, Iraq

The Palace, Baghdad – Iraq

The Estate, Nyon – Switzerland

Piazza della Rotonda, Rome – Italy

Near The Ranch, Basra – Iraq

Professor Glagolev’s Classroom, The Farm - USA

About the Author

C H A P T E R  O N E

Paris of the Middle East - Beirut, Lebanon

There was something truly unique about how three complete strangers chasing you down streets in a foreign land, firing at you with Kalashnikov AK-47 rifles and trying to kill you, certainly got the heart pumping. 

Out of the way! he instinctively shouted in English to everyone on the sidewalk.  "Get down!  Falata!  Déprimer!" he bellowed in English, Arabic, and French to the bystanders.

"Pardon!" he yelled in French as he dodged an old but well-dressed Lebanese woman and her startled full-sized black French poodle.  Unfrazzled from the encounter, the Mademoiselle mumbled, "Tête de merde," flipped her middle finger at him, and continued on with her morning dog walk. 

Michael Robert Devlin was amazed how locals coolly took a daylight assassination attempt as if nothing was out of the ordinary for Beirut.  Pedestrians just casually stepped to one side away from the tall, crazed man who shouted out warnings.  Lebanese who sat at outside restaurant tables continued eating their sugary, but light breakfast pastries such as ka'ak, and sipped their full-bodied, sweet, and black Turkish style coffee as if nothing had occurred.  After all, the three men were not shooting at them.  No doubt, the Beirut Mentality displayed on their faces as indifference to violence was the result of having lived through several years of a ferocious civil war.  Lebanon’s internal conflict had devastated significant portions of the so-called Paris of the Middle East.

There was no way for Devlin to count the number of bullets fired at him by the trio of assassins.  However, a distinctive low pitched, and dull craaacckk sound of Russian-made automatic rifles was ample motivation to run away from the attackers with all due haste.  Assuming thirty rounds per magazine used per weapon, and each assassin naturally brought along extra magazines, the morning firefight was not looking good for the American.  As he dashed by a line of parked cars, bullets shattered several car windows along his path, and the seriousness of the situation jolted Devlin’s memory.  Sergeant James Donovan, a Marine Corps recruiter who convinced him to join the Marines, had spoken a few profound words.  His words sealed the deal for Devlin to leave behind the frigid and snowy winters of Syracuse, New York.

Son, when you join the Marines, you get to travel to far away and glamorous places, where you meet strange and interesting people, the sergeant had sincerely said with a big bright smile.

Yeah, right.  No shit, sergeant!  Devlin yelled to himself as he ducked the hail bullets that flew by his head, shattered several large storefront windows, and ripped through expensively dressed mannequins.  Apparently, he thought, the kind Sergeant Donovan had never visited Beirut!

As he sprinted north towards Nejmeh Square, which was actually circular, Devlin knew his foot speed had increased the gap between himself and the three slower armed men who relentlessly pursued him.  This distance provided valuable time as he looked for a particular side street he had passed before reaching the bistros.  Survival instinct was ingrained in him from Parris Island boot camp, and six months of intense training at Fort Campbell, or The Farm, the boot camp for the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA).

One instructor at The Farm, who taught the Escape & Evasion course, had stressed, A successfully executed counterattack by ambush is well worth the effort to save your life and keep the enemy off balance.

His instructor had often cited a positive mental attitude as a powerful weapon and used one of his favorite Sun-Tzu quotes from, The Art of War.  The good fighters of old first put themselves beyond the possibility of defeat, and then waited for an opportunity of defeating the enemy.

Wise words, Devlin thought.  One traffic restricted one-way street for the trap came to mind as an ambush location.  As a well-trained deep cover field agent, Devlin had observed everything throughout the drive to NGC’s corporate apartment and during his leisurely stroll to Bistro Row: possible ambush sites, evacuation routes, landmarks for reference points, areas to avoid, and places that offered protective cover.

Devlin stopped in front of a specific street and turned around to confirm that he was still in the line of sight of his attackers.  His visibility was acknowledged when bullets struck an overhead universal, No Trucks, sign, a red circle with a diagonal red line crossing the vehicle in the center.  The trio had not stopped their attack and continued advancing towards his position.  He turned down the narrow street occupied by several burnt-out and rusted old cars with their feral cat occupants, and said Outstanding, to himself.  With one quick movement, he removed his sunglasses and placed them in an inside jacket pocket. 

About fifty feet down the street, just over fifteen meters, Devlin jumped up and grabbed a railing on a second-floor apartment.  Effortlessly, he pulled himself up to a second-floor balcony with a clear view of the entrance to the narrow side street.  Overhead, a glaring sun in a partly cloudy sky was now at his back to blind anyone who looked up at his elevated position from street level.  He remembered a time-tested attack strategy, All armies prefer high ground to low and sunny places to dark.  Sun Tzu’s teachings were still spot on over twenty-four hundred years after his death.

With his broad frame well concealed behind several large ceramic pots and colorful flowers that hung over the railing, Devlin removed a large firearm and screwed on the attachment from his jacket.  His trusted Colt .45 semi-automatic pistol with a suppressor was the best defense for continued survival under the most adverse attacks.  Now there was more than enough time to pause briefly, catch his breath, quickly reflect on the morning events, and on his own mortality. 

According to his high shock resistant, but not bulletproof Rolex Submariner watch, close to four hours had passed since he landed by corporate jet at 0700 hours at Beirut International Airport.  Supposedly, this trip was just another consulting project for Nyon Global Corporation (NGC).  The agreed upon schedule with the three most significant distributors of Nyon’s medical products in Lebanon was straightforward: 0800 hours conduct a meeting with three senior executives and then spend one to two weeks sorting out issues.  Yet, Devlin had somehow perturbed one or more individuals in an hour-long business meeting to the degree that warranted his murder in broad daylight on a public street. 

This was not unlike several attacks on his secret missions to Tunisia, Iran, Afghanistan, and Iraq as a member of Outrider, an ultra-secret organization reporting to only the President of the United States.  Devlin accepted this project to Lebanon from NGC as a break from his regular clandestine profession, where people tried to kill him on a frequent basis.  He made a mental note for his next project: he would perform proper due diligence, inquire into the politics of each country, and obtain a better understanding of the temperament of the inhabitants.

Devlin wondered which Lebanese executive had unleashed the trio of thuggish looking locals armed with their fully automatic rifles.  This was a new record for the shortest timeframe for a murder attempt and broke his previous standing two-day benchmark of Rome, Italy, last year.  Today, Tuesday, February 8, 1983, was indeed a red-letter day.  Indeed, tempers in the Middle East were verifiably short and decidedly volatile in nature.  Aggravating people was nothing new for Devlin, the top independent contract consultant for NGC. 

Referred to as just M.R. by his friends, Devlin was obscenely paid for his consulting expertise.  He solved corporate problems across NGC’s global holdings and increased bottom line results.  Dr. Adair Romer, the company founder, and long-time president of NGC, always assigned him the most troublesome projects.  Fortunately, Dr. Romer cared little about the methods employed by M.R., nor inquired about too many details on how a project was completed.  Devlin had a well-earned reputation for being a brilliant negotiator and problem solver.

Were the executives intimidated by his physical size?  At six foot six inches or one point nine eight meters in height, his athletic build instantly gave him a command presence in any boardroom.  Perhaps the shorter executives with a Napoleon Complex perceived him as a threat.  Maybe his jet-black ponytail offended those with balding heads, or was his immaculately coiffed beard too short for local sensitivities?  Was his delivery of questions too blunt in English?  Did any side discussions in French with the trio of distributors require a better command of French business terminology?

Devlin had asked only basic queries in the meeting such as why had longtime customers called NGC headquarters in Nyon, Switzerland, to complain about deliveries to Dr. Romer. 

Gentlemen, he said in his best diplomatic voice.  Why have hospitals, clinics, and doctors, all reported product shortages in every order for the last three months?  Devlin paused and looked at his three-person stone-faced audience.  He continued. 

Why were factory sealed boxes opened before every delivery to the customers?  Why was ‘Delivery Insurance,’ added as an additional charge to customers? He politely asked each question, and every executive responded.

"Nonsense, Monsieur, answered Khalil Ghandour coldly.  I have never seen any such reports.  Your information is, of course, incorrect."

"Monsieur Devlin, this is the first time I have heard of any of this," said Habib Fahed with a straight face.

No one at my company would ever do such things, Mahmoud Haddad nervously replied.

With all the pleasantries now exchanged with See No Evil, Hear No Evil, and Do No Evil, Devlin passed out evidential folders to each distributor for review.  After twenty minutes of a silent examination of their folder contents had passed, each merchant sat with Devlin and agreed to lead an investigation.  Devlin made follow-up appointments with each executive for later in the week.  At the end of the meeting, each businessman had smiled when he shook Devlin’s oversized, tough-skinned hand, and verbally confirmed his total commitment to resolve every alleged issue.  In closing, Devlin made sure everyone understood the magnitude of what was required from each executive.

Thank you all again for coming, he said with a smile.  Devlin then said with a hint of a threat in his voice, On behalf of Dr. Romer, he appreciates your commitment to ensuring the good name of Nyon Global Corporation stays untarnished.  When Dr. Romer says untarnished, you can take him at his word.  He will do everything in his power to keep a clean corporate image.  Is that clear?  With a nod of acknowledgment from each executive, the man from NGC continued his closing company speech.

Our company’s goal is exceptional customer service.  Please contact me immediately if you turn up any less than honorable business practices during your investigation.

After what appeared on the surface as a most productive hour-long meeting, a trusted chauffeur in a black armored Mercedes 560 SEL with dark tinted windows, drove Devlin to an apartment rented for his visit.  This unit was in a heavily gated and secured compound.  NGC provided excellent protection for both employees and contractors, especially when employees visited a place such as war-torn Beirut.  He dismissed his driver for the day, walked up two flights of stairs, and unlocked a heavy wooden door to the apartment.

Forty minutes later, he had changed out of his bespoke Italian wool suit and soft leather shoes, into less conspicuous casual street clothing.  A comfortable fitting pair of Levi jeans, a white cotton t-shirt over which he wore a custom-fitted NGC bullet-resistant vest.  One white-jacketed and bespectacled Research & Development scientist had said the product was "Urbild."  No doubt, some non-translatable technical German word, but all he cared about was that his protection fitted perfectly.  However, the tightly weaved, stronger than steel fabric was designed to only stop bullets fired from small arms such as pistols and pointed objects like knives which were popular in the Middle East.  Stabbed in the back was an expression that no doubt originated in the region.  In either case, the male populace in Lebanon carried pistols and knives like accessories, just as American men put on watches and carried pocket wallets in the United States.  This military grade vest represented a precaution, and a wise man always took precautions.

Devlin concealed the vest under a soft all-cotton green Dartmouth sweatshirt.  For no specific reason, American Ivy League clothes with logos, mainly Harvard or Yale, were all the rage in the Middle East.  Dartmouth carried his clothing size, and he was not a fan of Harvard nor Yale.  Too many United States politicians had graduated from those two schools, he thought.  A pair of fashionable steel-toed black leather boots with metal shanks on the bottoms provided protection for his large feet, and when correctly used, were deadly kicking weapons. 

From a hidden compartment in his oversized and metallic suitcase, Devlin removed several personal protection items.  One beautifully crafted leather shoulder holster held one of the two custom built Colt .45 semi-automatic pistols he had packed for this trip.  These pistols had oversized grips that accommodated his large hands, three-dot sights for quick target acquisition, an accurized competition barrel, and a hair trigger.  Devlin always hit whatever he aimed at; humans or targets.  Loaded with an extended ten-round magazine of high-velocity ammunition, this weapon was extraordinarily accurate and unfailingly lethal in his hands.  For additional protection, two extra ten-round magazines of ammunition were in a pouch attached to the leather strap on the other side of the shoulder holster.  Thirty rounds should be more than enough just to go to lunch, he jokingly thought.  Next, he selected a newly manufactured and unmarked NGC sound suppressor machine fitted for his .45. 

Lastly, he removed his most trusted and reliable weapon, his father’s World War II United States Marine Corps KA-BAR fighting knife.  This well-crafted, high-quality steel knife was handmade by his mother in the Camillus Cutlery Company, Camillus, New York, during World War II.  One of several she had mailed to his father, who had fought the Japanese in the Pacific Theater.  This knife had seen its fair share of bloody action from both father and son.  With a razor-sharp seven-inch-long fixed blade, this leather-handled and silent instrument of death had never failed to terminate any opponent.  As his father had said when he had gifted the deadly weapon, You never have to reload a knife.

As he stood in the hallway before a tall, gold leaf trimmed mirror wearing his shoulder holster and KA-BAR concealed in the small of his back, Devlin donned a very stylish light gray zippered jacket.  He then nonchalantly placed the suppressor inside a specially designed interior pocket next to his zippered wallet pocket.  From a tactical perspective, a quick pull on the oversized zipper would open the jacket for easy access to the .45 and KA-BAR.  Marcel Moretti, from Moretti Tailors, proudly stated to him when fitted, this style was, All the rage in Milan. 

For about a minute, he checked the bespoke jacket line any bulges revealing the concealment of his .45, knife, and suppressor.  Satisfied with the impeccable craftsmanship of his tailor, Devlin donned a pair of fashionable, dark-tinted Ray-Ban Aviator sunglasses.  Over his shoulder, he placed a small messenger bag over his shoulder that contained confidential documents to read over lunch and checked himself out in the mirror one last time.

Damn, I am just too good-looking, he boasted to an empty and uncaring apartment. 

Hearing no response from the room, Devlin departed the short-term living quarters and headed out to explore the sights of Beirut.  A light lunch was in order at one of the many local bistros no more than a ten-minute walk from his current location.  Fifteen minutes later, he strolled up to the window of an impressive looking bistro, where a Lebanese and French haute cuisine menu hung in the window.  The menu contained a lengthy list of delicious foods. 

When he was halfway through reading the meals, the screeching sound of tires caused him to turn around just in time to see the sliding door on a beat up looking black van open.  Dressed in modest street clothing, three unshaven and rough looking men armed with AK-47 rifles, jumped out.  Three street thugs - Aban Taffa, Fawaz Assad, and Shafeek Younis, aimed their well-used weapons in his direction and prepared to fire.

First produced by the Soviet Union in 1947, the "Avtomat Kalashnikova," the automatic weapon of Kalashnikov in English, was proudly named after the weapon's designer.  Manufactured to function under the harshest environmental conditions, the AK-47 was the primary small arms weapon of the Middle East.  Designed to fire a 7.62x39mm cartridge at a rate of six hundred rounds per minute, it was around eight pounds in weight with a fully loaded thirty-round magazine.  This solidly manufactured rifle was accurate to approximately three hundred and eighty yards, or three hundred fifty meters.  In the right hands, the weapon was precise in delivering death at much shorter distances.

Devlin’s survival instinct and training kicked in before the first shot was fired.  In top physical condition from the regular long runs ingrained in him from boot camp at Parris Island, he moved with the speed and grace of a long-legged gazelle moved through the crowded street and sidewalk.  His speed and agility surprised the three-man assassination team who had anticipated just shooting him in front of a few disinterested Lebanese at the street-side bistro.  Each man had expected an out-of-shape middle-aged businessman from Nyon, Switzerland, not a young track star, who bolted in the blink of an eye and dashed down the street. 

Aban Taffa, the group’s leader, shouted in Arabic, He’s running!  Shoot that dog!

I have him, replied Fawaz, as he let loose a five-round burst of 7.62×39mm bullets from his Russian-made rifle; all the shots missed the human target by a Lebanese country kilometer.

You missed! yelled Shafeek as he fired three rounds from his weapon in single-shot mode at the running target.

Idiots! Aban bellowed.  After him!  Kill him!

They all marveled at the man who held onto his messenger bag like a rugby ball as he executed an evasive zigzag pattern between cars and pedestrians.  The tall man smoothly performed a fantastic series of unpredictable moves designed to avoid the hail of bullets unleashed from their weapons.  Frustrated by their inability to hit the swiftly moving target at a distance even once, the trio pursued the speedy American on foot to the best of their athletic abilities.  All now believed this man was a respectable prey worthy of a chase because, in the end, they would collect a sizeable payment for his death.  Unknowingly, the hunters pursued their prey right into a surprise attack.

Devlin had picked his ambush site well.  When the trio ran around the corner and became visible, they paused briefly and assessed their next steps.  Using hand signals, Aban gestured to Fawaz to watch their backs, while he and Shafeek slowly advanced down the one-way street.  With their AK-47s at the ready, the two men visually swept the thoroughfare looking for a target.  Not seeing their prey, they cautiously moved forward, keeping about fifteen feet, or four and a half meters, apart.  Seconds later, two of the three triggermen had crossed an imaginary line into the immediate kill zone.  They were easy targets for the uncanny accuracy of Devlin’s custom Colt .45, and his rock-steady aim. 

As if on cue by a supernatural power who watched over Devlin from above, two sets of cathedral bells rang out in unison for the eleventh hour and startled the three men.  Saint George Greek Orthodox Cathedral and Saint Elias Greek Catholic Cathedral were just around the corner.  A deep dong noise by the bells provided additional cover for any gunfire.  Devlin took aim at the nearest man’s head and fired once.  Psst, went the suppressed weapon.  Given the short distance between Devlin and the target, the back of the man’s head exploded in a burst of red mist, bone fragments, and gray brain matter from the full muzzle energy force of the bullet.  Aban’s limp body fell to the potholed road with a dull thud. 

Before the ejected shell casing had reached the apex of the ejection arc and started falling to the ground, the .45 spat out the second projectile of death with another soft psst.  185 grains of hot copper-jacketed lead struck Shafeek’s skull between the eyes just above the frontonasal suture line of the connective nasal bone.  His head erupted with another shower of blood, pieces of bone, and brain matter.  Death was instantaneous and painless. 

Still unaware his two partners in crime were dead, Fawaz faced the main street and dutifully guarded the narrow entrance without question.  As he leaned up against a building wall to blend into his surroundings, the killer remained hypervigilant for any potential rear flank attack.  Unfortunately, the loud ring of the cathedral bells ringing overpowered any sounds from further up the one-way street, like the soft thud made when dead bodies hit the pavement.  No one heard the sound of either of the two ejected brass shells when they struck the street.

With the cathedral bells still ringing, Devlin aimed the Colt straight at the back of the third target’s head, roughly fifty feet/fifteen meters away, slowly exhaled and fired.  Traveling at just over 1,000 feet/305 meters per second, the bullet covered the distance between Devlin and the human target in less time than it took to blink.  There was no question of the outcome of a high-speed lead projectile versus bone.  The fatal bullet penetrated the man’s parietal bone and exited the front of his skull through what was formally a sizeable Lebanese nose.  A huge exit hole had replaced a large proboscis, which now was scattered in fleshy pieces across the pavement.

As his close combat instructor at Parris Island Staff Sergeant Thaddeus Washington White was fond of saying, Join the Marines.  Travel to faraway places, meet exotic people, and KILL THEM! 

Even though he had used a .45 instead of a KA-BAR to dispatch three killers, Devlin thought Staff Sergeant White would be very proud of his star pupil today.  Three clean shots for three necessary terminations.

Satisfied the trio of would-be assassins was deader than the bells of the nearby bombed out Saint Georges Maronite Cathedral, Devlin holstered his weapon and climbed down from the balcony perch.  Without hesitation, he searched the first body, removed a wallet, one set of identity papers, and stuffed those in his messenger bag.  Then the second body was frisked, items stuffed into the bag, and Devlin promptly moved on to the third corpse. 

As he kneeled over the noseless dead body, a fourth attacker, the driver of the van, stepped around the corner with a pistol in his hand.  The thug had unknowingly caught Devlin entirely off guard.  Worse, this previously uncounted assassin was visually no older than fifteen years of age.  With a rusty Spanish Star 9mm semi-automatic pistol in his hand, ibn il-Homaar aimed it right at Devlin’s chest. 

Ibn il-Homaar, Arabic for Son of a Donkey, or Homaar for short, was raised on the streets of Beirut.  At ten years of age, Homaar had killed his first person with a brick during the civil war over a piece of half eaten fruit found in a trashcan.  No one knew Homaar’s real name, which he had long forgotten.

"Hello.  Bonjour.  Ahlan, Devlin nervously said without moving.  You really do not want to…" 

Homaar fired two shots into Devlin’s chest before the poorly maintained Star malfunctioned, failed to eject the second shell case and jammed.  With two smoking holes in his expensive bespoke jacket, Devlin fell backward to the street in agonizing pain from the impact of two 9mm rounds that struck his ribs.  He lay still, barely breathing.

Without speaking a word, the cold-blooded adolescent murderer stuffed the rusty handgun into his motor oil-stained pants.  Homaar then removed a plastic bag from his equally dirty jacket that contained a spotlessly clean Polaroid SX-70 instant camera.  Swiftly and without any hesitation, the Son of a Donkey, opened the camera, focused on Devlin’s body, took two photographs of his handiwork, and waited for Polaroid’s required one-minute development time for each photo before he removed the protective sheet. 

Satisfied the developed pictures represented proof of death for his employer, he spat on Devlin’s motionless body.  Homaar nonchalantly walked back to his van parked around the corner and drove away to report the success to the boss.  As the only survivor, there would be no four-way split of the payment.  Besides, he thought, those three had always treated him like a dog and had never paid him well.  Homaar was delighted with the significant profit he had made for less than an hour’s work.

Two minutes passed before the limp body on the road opened its eyes, inhaled deeply through his mouth, and moaned, Lord, why do they always have to spit on me?  Why, Lord, why?  No response from the Lord above was forthcoming. 

With a groan, Devlin slowly raised himself off the ground to a standing position and slowly walked towards the dead bodies of his would-be assassins.  The sharp pain in his chest felt as if someone had stabbed him and left the knife in the wound.  He pulled up his sweatshirt and inspected the damage.  The high-tech fabric of the NGC bulletproof vest had successfully captured two 9mm bullets.  However, the impact of the point-blank attack had apparently caused internal injury, perhaps damaged a rib or two.  In any case, there was no doubt in Devlin’s mind that an examination by a medical professional was required as soon as possible - just not now.  When he bent over to search each corpse, it felt as if someone had stabbed him again.

Uggggh, he blurted out loudly to an empty street as he reached into the man’s jacket pocket for a tattered old leather wallet and well-worn identification papers.  Devlin collected and then secured those items in the messenger bag.  He stood up and reflected on the short battle. 

Guys, it was a great party, but now I have to find out who sent you.  Rest in peace; someone will pick up your bodies in a few days.  Or maybe the cats will have a feast later today.  Hearing no response from an audience of corpses, he added, I need a bonus in my contracts for working in combat zones.

That said, he took a moment to catch his bearings, composed himself, and then casually walked in a northerly direction towards Nejmeh Square.  NGC’s rented apartment was a short walk from the historical landmark reference point.  His apartment was a secure place for a dose of liquid medicine in the well-stocked liquor cabinet, painkillers from an NGC medical kit, and a comfortable couch to rest on and plan his next steps. 

Devlin proceeded north on el Maarad to Nejmeh Square where six streets radiated from the well-maintained circular road.  As he approached, the centerpiece of the square, the Abed Clock Tower, grew more impressive with each step.  Once inside the square, he turned right on el Nejmeh.  One of his few predictable actions was to have the sun at his back or to one side for a tactical advantage.  This route kept the sun and the Saint George Greek Orthodox Cathedral to his right flank. 

Superstition ran deep in the Middle East.  It was very improbable a drive-by shooter or even an old fashion walk up and put a gun to your head assassin, would murder anyone in front of a religious edifice.  However, one was never one hundred percent certain a non-Lebanese hired killer would abide by the unwritten code. 

Despite an on-again, off-again Civil War, Nejmeh Square attracted a multitude of tourists from around the world.  These sightseers offered additional cover for Devlin as they walked through the square with their cameras, and changed direction without any warning.  There was no clear line of sight at street level for any shooter.  Shootings in front of tourists were terrible for the local businesses that paid protection money to various organizations, including remnants of the Palestine Liberation Organization (PLO), to avoid any such embarrassment.  For those who were aware, Nejmeh Square was an official safe zone.

There was no relief from the chest pain.  With every step taken, the discomfort had increased as if the jagged edges of broken rib bones pressed against his right lung.  Devlin had no choice but to find a comfortable, yet strategic spot with a view, to sit down and rest for a few minutes.  Directly across the square from the Lebanese Parliament building, where heavily armed guards patrolled outside in full view of the tourists, were several benches near the cathedral; these offered the best tactical rest location. 

The Parliament Guards were far enough away to discourage any attackers who might approach Devlin, but not close enough for the guards to see the injuries of a wounded man seated across the square.  With a grunt, the wounded fighter sat down in an empty seat for a much-needed respite.  As a cold February Mediterranean Sea breeze soothed his face, he scrutinized the fluid crowd for anyone who looked out of place. 

After about five minutes, a group of elderly American tourists stood in front of him and blocked his view of the clock tower.  One tired-looking couple from Broken Arrow, Oklahoma, USA, broke from the pack and sat down on the bench. 

How are you feeling, Albert? the woman asked her husband.

Fine, Mary.  Would you like some water? he offered as he opened a small backpack.

No, I am good for now, hon.  Did the tour guide say when the clock tower was built? she inquired.

Albert replied, Don’t recall exactly what he said. 

The tower was built around 1934, Devlin replied weakly as he pointed to the tower.  Those are probably the biggest Rolex clocks that you will ever see.  Mardiros Altounian designed the tower and the Parliament building across the street.

Albert turned and said, Interesting.  Thank you.  American?

On a good day, yes, sir, I am an American.

Today must be a good day then, Mary quipped. 

Devlin took a short breath and replied, So far so good.

You don’t look so good, Albert said with a concerned tone in his voice.  Are you OK?  Would you like some water?  It is bottled, not tap.  Can’t trust the local tap water when you travel.

Through his blurry eyes, Devlin noticed the baseball style cap Albert wore had printed on it, USMC, WWII Veteran.

Semper Fi, Devlin said.

Albert smiled and responded with a hearty OORAH! and laughed.

Son, you have blood on the corner of your mouth.  Albert handled him several tissues he had retrieved from the backpack. 

Thank you.  I must have bit my lip, Devlin said as he wiped the corner of his mouth and noticed the blood was a little frothy, possibly from a hemothorax.

Mary looked at Albert and whispered something in his ear.  Son, Albert began.  You do know that those two holes in your jacket were not made by moths?

Devlin gazed down at the holes, moved the messenger bag to conceal the attack, and then looked up at Albert.  There are a few huge moths in Lebanon, and I forgot to pack a few mothballs.

We can call a taxi and take you to a hospital, Mary offered.

"Thank you,