THE PERFECT CANDIDATE
By Samantha Kingston
Copyright 2011 Samantha Kingston
This work is copyright. Apart from any use permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced by any process, nor may any other exclusive right be exercised, without the permission of Samantha Kingston 2012
THE PERFECT CANDIDATE
It’s not as if anyone got hurt. I mean, I was just doing my job, what else was expected of me? I keep telling myself that but it’s all a lie. People did get hurt, and nothing in my job description had anything to do with killing innocents. I am here because I am a special kind of person.
When they came to my high school and saw that I had beaten every athletic record in the history of the school, and had placed nationally in cross-country running, they wanted to see more. My academic record was perfect too (straight A’s since kindergarten) and I was the perfect candidate.
****
“Please don’t,” he screamed, the gun in my hand pushed against his forehead. “I’m innocent. It’s not my fault”. I wanted to pull.
****
They said it would get easier, killing. That it would become natural, that I wouldn’t feel anything after a while. My first kill was easy. An Iraqi insurgent was holding a school hostage. I knew that he was the bad guy, and that what I was going to do would result in many lives saved. That’s why I agreed to this; I had a skill that could help people like no one else could. I was warned.
“Sometimes you will have doubts. You will feel that you want to go straight to the hostages, but that’s not your job. Your job is to aim and fire,” said Director Logan. He was tall, stocky, an ex fighter who, like me, was chosen young. The fact that the Army was secretly recruiting teenagers still haunted my sleep.
The academy was tiny, 20 of us, all in one dormitory. Single bunk beds, barred windows; the room was always freezing. It felt like a prison, but to be honest, it was more freedom than I’d ever had before. My father was the local minister, and my mother a local government councilor. I didn’t realize until I came here the type of scrutiny I was under. I was the perfect daughter, and I never realized how much I hated it until I left.
****
I finally had him. The target was within reach. All I had to do was signal the tactical team, and I’d have backup, they’d have their terrorist. It was my 20th mission; I was entitled to a break after this kill, long service leave they called it. I was providing a service. Ayman al-Zawahiri, leader of al-Qaeda. Hidden underground since Bin Laden’s death, he was a lot easier to find than I was led to believe. I had other skills apart from my aim.
Posing as a student at the University of Cairo, it wasn’t a challenge for me to spot his son, Mohammed al-Zawahiri. A shy man, he kept out of the spotlight, and denied his true identity when he was asked. In Cairo, he was just another boy, not the son of one of the world’s most dangerous men. He was, however, naïve, and had no clue he was being manipulated. I kind of felt sorry for him, I didn’t necessarily mean for him to feel the way he did, but for me to reciprocate would be inappropriate. After all, I was assigned to kill his father.
****
“Your aim is off today Miles”, said Director Logan. It was the day before our proficiency exam, and tests and I weren’t exactly best friends.
“I’ll be fine,” I said, as I pulled the trigger. “I’m just a little off”
“There’s big things in store for you Miles, but that all depends on what you do tomorrow. You don’t want to know what happens if you don’t pass,” he said, as I shot again. Perfect this time. He tapped my shoulder.
****
“Mohammed!” I yelled, running to catch up with him. It wasn’t hard to ‘convince’ our lecturer to group us together. He continued walking away, when I broke into a run. As I caught up I pretended to be out of breath. “You walk very fast! I thought I was going to have an asthma attack”
“What do you want?” he said flatly, continuing along his path.
“We’re group mates” I said smiling. “I thought maybe we should exchange numbers, emails, so that we can work on the assignment” He seemed genuinely surprised that I didn’t get straight to the “hey your Dad’s a terrorist thing”, and that maybe I didn’t even know. It must be a relief. He smiled back.
****
Looking down at his lifeless, I was reminded of the first mission. The first is always the worst they’d tell us. His eyes stared at me, like they could still see.
****
He wasn’t hard to find. It seemed like al-Zawahiri had wanted us to find him. An apartment in Islamabad; we could easily see through the windows. It was Barclay, another officer in our division who was often paired with me, who spotted him first. I always wanted the glory of finding him, but being a part of the team that captured the leader of al-Qaeda would probably grant me a medal of some sort. Barclay and I had the same qualities, we both knew this was our lives now, and we would dedicate every ounce of energy we had towards the team.
“Miles, I can hear the applause already”
“Don’t get too eager Clay, you haven’t got him yet. We should call tac”, I said, grabbing my walkie talkie.
“No, don’t,” Clay said. “You know how good this would be if we got him?” a smile lit up his face. “It could be us Miles, not them”.
“I don’t know, it’s not protocol, plus its my 20th, and I want my break”
“Come on , don’t be so boring. We could just say it was a matter of emergency and we had to act or we’d lose him.” I didn’t want to, but I trusted Barclay, and after all, he was my partner.
****
Studying was something I hadn’t done since basic training, so it was weird getting back into a pattern. We were in the University of Cairo library, Mohammed and I. The class we were taking, Principals of Contracts, was maybe the most boring subject I could ever think of. I knew nothing of them, nor could I be bothered. That’s where Mohammed came in. It was easy for me to play dumb and ask for extra help, and at first I didn’t feel guilty. It was just another mission.
“So first we have to determine if a contract existed”, he said, going over the task at hand. It was night, quiet in the library, the lighting dim. I really wasn’t in the mood to study, but it was now my job.
“I just don’t get any of this,” I said, playing with my hair. I’d read somewhere that fiddling could be constituted as flirting, and since I needed information, it was maybe the easiest way to manipulate him. “I don’t know how you do it Mohammed, you’re so smart”. I’ve heard appealing to their ego does the same thing.
“It’s alright, it’s a hard concept. We did things like this in high school” Oh! An opening! I could use this opportunity to ask about so many things!
“Where did you go to high school?” I asked casually. He looked hesitant, but obviously my naivety worked.
“I did not go to traditional high school. My sisters and I were tutored by our mother”, he said, scribbling some notes on his paper.
“That sounds nice. Are you close with your mother?” I asked, playing stupidity so easy. It was nice to not think.
“My mother has passed,” he said. “Now back to contracts.”
****
The day I was given my first assignment I vomited. It was all fine to go through training, getting told what my job entailed, but the moment I had a name, it became real. It wasn’t anyone high level, just a man suspected to be plotting with the insurgents. He was going to be a suicide bomber, so he was probably going to die anyway. I was there to give myself the satisfaction of taking away that freedom from him. He was the lowest form of human being one could imagine, someone who could take the lives of innocent people. But still, I vomited.
**
**
This had all gone wrong. He wasn’t supposed to be there, and this was all a mistake. If only Clay hadn’t been so reckless, Mohammed wouldn’t be dead.
****
Mohammed’s religion meant he couldn’t drink, but that didn’t stop him from coming to the university tavern for a celebratory drink. We had, after all, completed our assignment and gotten better than a fail. I was swallowing vodka and lemonade, while Mohammed sipped his water.
“You know it wouldn’t be so bad if you had just one drink” I teased, knowing his answer would be a speech on how his religion is important to him. Surprisingly, he grabbed my vodka, and slurped it down in one swift gulp.
“Another?” he quizzed, and by the end of the evening, we were downing tequila like it was no ones business. We were sat up at the bar, and I knew I sober up for a second to see if I could gain any information. Once I’d asked, there would be no going back, he would know who I was and what I was after.
“So, like, I heard your dad is like some scary military guy or something” I asked, quietly and playfully. Mohammed looked at me and grunted.
“He’s an asshole. He doesn’t care about what I want,” he slurred, laughing. “He’s a bad guy, my dad. What you would call,” he whispered, “a terrorist,” giggling. “The funny thing is, you people have been trying to find him for months, and I know exactly where he is!” he said laughingly.
****
Clay was on the ground, looking to find a way into the tiny third floor apartment, I sat on the rooftop where we first spotted al-Zawahiri. My instructions from Clay were simple, if I saw him, shoot. I sat there with my binoculars, listening to the walkie-talkie that Clay rigged to a restricted frequency. It crackled.
“Miles, you there gorgeous?” he said from his position behind a pillar on the floor.
“What do you want jerk?” I joked back, taking my eye off the apartment to look at Clay.
“Have you got confirmation?”
“No visual, looks like he’s in the back. There are other’s there, three or so women, I don’t recognize them”
“Alright I’m moving. Wish me luck Miles”
“Just don’t get yourself blown up”, I said as Clay ducked out of sight. The women in the apartment were fighting, bickering over something. I couldn’t make out exactly what they were saying but it was heated enough for me to hear it from across the road, so it must’ve been important.
The scene changed. Two men, one older, one younger joined the women fighting by the window. My walkie-talkie crackled.
“Visuals Miles?” he asked.
“Affirmative Barclay, three females, two males, one suspected to be the target.”
“Going in” the radio crackled. I focused my binoculars back on the window. They were closer now. I could make out faces. Definitely al-Zawahiri. Most probably his daughters too. Wait. His daughters were there. That meant- it couldn’t be. That male couldn’t be my friend, the one who got drunk with me; the one who stayed for hours to help me study. The other male could not be Mohammed. But it could. I mean, he knew where his father was; it was very possibly him.
The mission. Oh God the mission. Barclay wasn’t just taking out al-Zawahiri, he was planning on taking the whole room. He was going to kill Mohammed.
“Come in Barclay” I radioed. “Barclay, come in”
“I’m a bit busy here Miles, what do you want?” he crackled back.
“Abort. There are innocents, abort the mission”
“You want me to abort? After all this chasing, I am not giving up. al-Zawahiri is going down”
“Abort Barclay”
…
“Abort Barclay”
****
I was finally home. I couldn’t remember the last few days. When Barclay ignored my pleas and took out the building, he had lost my respect. I was frozen.
****
I was screaming, crying, running. The explosion caused a dust cloud that was hard to maneuver through, but I was determined. Mohammed couldn’t be dead. My shy, quiet friend could not have been killed.
I scrambled through the dust, looking for any signs of life. Waving my hands in the air, clearing dust, I saw the first body, hardly a body. A woman, then another woman. And then, lying on top of the third was a male. His back badly burnt, I turned him over.
He looked normal. His face wasn’t damaged, his eyes still open.
****
Back home at the academy, I was the outcast. I deliberately went against orders and cause the injury of another officer. No one believed me when I said it was his idea. Barclay and I would never work together again, he would never work for the service. I was under around the clock supervision, to make sure I didn’t rebel again. I had had more meetings with Director Logan than throughout my entire time here, and every time, they asked why I went in. They couldn’t believe that I formed a friendship with a terrorist’s son.
Barclay was still in the hospital, and I had every intention of paying him a visit. The psychiatrist was also stationed there, and as I was designated an “inactive”, the service decided I should probably see her. I had different plans.
On my bathroom break, I snuck down the hall towards intensive care. He was the only patient, lying there, being doted over.
The nurses heard the clacking of my boots on the sick linoleum floor, clearing immediately when they saw who I was.
“So I see you’re getting the special treatment?” I smirked, walking up next to his bed.
“What do you want Miles? I’m trying to rest”, he said, closing his eyes.
“You know, I thought we were friends” I said as I sat down on the bed. “I thought we had each others backs. There was going to be applause for us, remember? Glory?”
“What do you want Miles?” he coughed.
“You know exactly what I want Barclay. I want an explanation. I told you to abort, but you completely disregarded my orders. I know you could hear me, I guess the glory was more important than innocent lives hey?”
“I did exactly what you would do”, he said, as I clicked the safety off the hand gun I had concealed in my pocket.
“Please don’t,” he screamed, the gun in my hand pushed against his forehead. “I’m innocent. It’s not my fault”. I wanted to pull.
The End
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Samantha Kingston is a law student from Perth, Western Australia. It’s odd to see her not covered in flour. She enjoys knitting, frying things and reading trashy tween novels. She also wishes to one day become a Marvel Avenger.