Bakr Nadir is a 44 year old businessman. He was born in Saudi Arabia to wealthy parents who schooled their heir in London and Switzerland. He was by far the brightest of the three children. One girl, sadly, and two boys. He was the second. The older child was nothing, he thought. He is a second Dan black belt in Shukokai karate. He speaks fluent French, German and English as well as his native Arabic, and women said he could charm a bird off a tree. His personal fortune was said to be in the many, many billions but, of course, nobody knew for sure.
Nine years ago he visited his cousin in Yemen. It should have been a joyous wedding ceremony. His own wife and child, his seven year old daughter, Aisha, were with him. They were killed by an American drone and a few snipers. It was the start of his journey into terrorism. Aisha had needed a crutch to walk. Polio since birth. The start of his experience of terror. The rich are usually protected from such violence. After the death of Aisha he moved to Yemen. But Yemen is not a place for a very rich Saudi. Not unless he is into terrorism. And so had begun his quest for peace for his wife and children, his quest for revenge. He worked hard. He amassed a vast fortune by buying cheaply, mostly from China and Indonesia, and selling expensively, mostly to the U.K. and the U.S. These infidels liked their fashion clothes, the more expensive the better, and they did not care, or even think about who had made them or how. Most of the clothes he bought were for the lowest possible price, made by children and sold at a markup of over 2000%. He drove the price per unit down with threats. I will buy 1000 units at twenty cents per unit or find another. They all caved in. The rich got richer, while the poor got poorer. Nothing changed. And the very thought of it brought a smile to his face. Allahu Akbar, he thought.
Bakr Nadir was a very smart man. He had watched as the U.S.A. had bombed and killed it’s way through the middle-east, and was reminded of a joke he had heard in London many years ago: “ An American says to an Arab. “Have you got democracy?” The Arab says no. The American says, “Well, don’t worry, we’ll soon bomb it into you!” Except he had never found that to be very funny. Rather, for him, it was a statement of fact. And so he had begun to see his mission not only as one of revenge, but as a holy quest to defeat the invader. He “knew” the U.S.A was out of control. They saw, they went, they took. Just as Hilary had laughingly said.(except, Hillary had said, we killed, at the end.) Well, he was going to stop that. He would do the killing.
And Aisha would be avenged. No father should ever lose a daughter.
His plan had been years in the making. His profile had been so low that nobody had even considered him a terrorist. Of course, they knew about “The Islamic World” but they did not know who funded them. They guessed. Had meetings. But they did not know.
Bakr Nadir was 15 when he was given a copy of “The Art of War.” He had read it cover to cover, amazed at the discipline shown in the book. That is what he had learned. To become like a Japanese. To be disciplined. Since then he had watched and waited, lived and learned. Trained and maimed.
And very soon now the whole world would know his name. And that of his dead daughter, Aisha.
“I have a message for Bakr Nadir. Give him this paper. It is of great importance to him.”
The servant took the paper and entered the huge house. Guys with guns were everywhere. He walked up to the man sitting at his table as he did every morning after his martial-arts training was over. “Excuse me, Sir, I am to give you this.” He held out the paper.
Bakr Nadir took the paper without looking and thanked the man. The paper was folded in four and he wondered where it had come from, open like this as it was. He took a minute before he unwrapped the paper, then he read it slowly.
“You will find this interesting,” it said in Arabic.
“The man who killed your daughter worked for The Rainbow Group. You know of this group. You, like many others, have used them. This man is now in Scotland. He is retired but he will soon be active again. It is he who pulled the trigger, killing your daughter. They call him ‘The Rainbow Man.’ He lives with a woman called Lucy. If you cannot take him, take her, and he will follow. He is the one you seek.”
It was an important paper. There was no signature.
Bark Nadir ground his teeth as he read the paper three times. Rainbow. Yes, he had used Rainbow before. They were, indeed, a very, very dangerous group. The Scottish agent, he had never heard of. But Rainbow, a secret group carrying out killings for a price, a high price, satisfaction guaranteed? Oh yes, he knew of this “Rainbow.”
So, this was the name of the infidel who had killed his little daughter, Aisha. He was holding the letter in his right hand. He let it drop to his side as he looked to his left. He stood up, and stood very, very still. What were they doing? His tongue rolled around his teeth. Who had sent this? And why?
“Get me a whiskey, “ he said.
The whiskey arrived in an instant. The woman who brought it was obviously scared of the man, her hands were shaking so. “Go,” he said.
It was then he thought about the source of this information. And he understood very quickly. It must be the British, maybe the Americans. They were selling out an agent. They thought there would be gain for them.
Yes, they could think that. But there would not be gain for them, only death.
He snorted.
Then he laughed out loud. The other’s in the room smiled, too. Better a smiling head on the shoulders than a grimacing face on the floor, they thought.
There was no need to verify the information. He had a plan that would let the truth come out. They had the girl. Redcroft. They would make a video, give them a choice. Her life or the life of their killer. All this was new. They did not know who they were playing with. They had unleashed a monster and they would soon know his revenge.
Perhaps he would have the girl tortured. Get it all on video. Turn a few infidel stomachs. Or perhaps it was better to leave that part till later. Have more fun. He did not know, yet. soon all would become clear. He had the girl and soon they would have the man. He felt ice cold as he downed his whiskey. It burned it’s way down his throat, this Scottish drink.
“Time for some tea!” he shouted, smiling.
The Ziffer raised an eyebrow and continued to watch Bakr Nadir play. Soon it would be his turn and all the world would know the name Ziffer.
“Gentlemen.”