a lot, but not if we’re talking about places like New Mexico or Texas. We use tents for housing and instruction. We can rent a couple of motor homes. We can also rent portable toilets and al the furniture and equipment we need. Ten thousand acres is enough for things like firing ranges, obstacle courses, and teaching explosives.”
“Good thinking,” Alan agreed.
“The property should be at least three miles from the nearest neighbor. Further is better. We discourage visitors and cover our tracks by putting up signage that says something like ‘DANGER––EXPLOSIVES TESTING AREA––TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED––XYZ CHEMICAL CO.’––that kind of verbiage.”
“In other words, scare anyone who gets within spitting distance,” Herb offered.
“Right you are, Mr. Bentz,” Marie added with a curt smile. Then she looked over at Alan. “If you like this approach, we would be looking at Texas, Nevada, Arizona, or New Mexico given things like weather, proximity to neighbors, and general privacy issues.”
Alan was already nodding. “Let’s move on that, Marie. Priority one.”
“As long as we’re moving in that direction,” Brian said, “why don’t I put in a cal to an old friend of mine in Texas. Jonathan Byner. He’s an oil guy with probably 25,000 acres of land outside of El Paso. He cal s it his private hunting preserve, but I know for a fact that he hasn’t picked up a gun in ten years. The land is just sitting there as far as I know. If he’s open to renting it, Marie and I could fly down there this weekend and have a look.”
“Byner? I know him.” Alan said.
“Byner Resources,” Brian said. “Not the nicest guy on the planet but a die-hard patriot. He tried running for Congress years back, and even his fel ow Texans thought he was too hardboiled.”
“Two problems,” Herb said. “Wil he keep his mouth shut, and wil we be able to handle transportation to some no-man’s land in Texas?”
“I’l know the answer to both those questions by the end of the week-end,” Brian promised. “If I’m not convinced, we’l look elsewhere. What do you think, Alan?”
“I like it; let’s give it a shot. Cal me from El Paso,” Alan said. “Al right. So let’s back up a little and talk about our assassins. Let’s assume Herb is right and figure we’l need two assassins for every target. The question then is how many targets wil we have at one time?”
“A maximum of ten,” said Herb without a moment’s hesitation. “The other option we should consider is to pick a single target, someone important enough to have an impact but vulnerable. That way, we don’t get in over our heads. We have a chance to learn how the game is played.”
“You make a lot of sense, Herb. After al , we can always expand our operations,”
Alan said. “How does that sound, Brian? One target to begin, a maximum of ten in the planning phase.”
“You’ve got my vote,” Brian said.
“Good. And for now, I want you to take a leave from your security chief position. I want you to go ful time on Adala.”
Brian nodded. “I’l have my deputy take up the slack. He’l do fine.”
“Good. Let’s get our instructors on board this week, if possible,” Alan added,
“and Herb, I’d like for you to bil DII for your consulting time and al your expenses. Let’s start by getting our recruits in order. Marie, you’ve earned the title of director of strategic services and the salary and benefits that go along with it. Hopeful y we can make a deal on that El Paso property this weekend.”
“I’m flattered, chief. Thank you,” she said, sharing a wink and nod with Brian. Alan was already on his feet. “Until Monday,” he said.
6 - OWLS AND HAWKS
AIRBORNE TO NEW YORK
EVEN AT THIRTY thousand feet, cutting through the smooth sea of air and with nothing else to do, Alan wasn’t given to reminiscing. He didn’t think of himself as an overly sentimental man because he knew that today, this moment, was al he had. Nothing could be done about the yesterdays, today had to yield the plans for tomorrow and satisfy its own demands. It was his job as a human being to make the most of it, to enjoy the people he knew and loved, and to do his best to make his little slice of the world the most productive and creative it could be. He knew there was nothing as permanent and constant as change. Change wasn’t something a man fought; change always presented opportunities. It was something a man could use to his advantage.
Alan’s long flight back from Houston found him reviewing the con-tracts he had just negotiated. The contract negotiations in Houston had been spirited, exactly the way Alan liked them, and the oldest man at the table was an attorney whose father had been a golfing buddy of Alan’s great-grandfather, a towering, robust man named Jefferson Davis.
Jefferson was forty-two years old when he founded Davis International Industries in 1920. Back then, the company was cal ed Western Dril ing. The company grew and expanded, but the family never relinquished control, not a single share’s worth. Dril ing soon became only one of many energy-oriented enterprises they were involved in. They built refineries. They owned transport ships. They laid pipeline. They were total y devoted to the world’s need for energy. Almost from the beginning, they set aside substantial resources for the maintenance of research and development in the area of alternative sources of energy.
The business was handed down from father to son. Alan was the last surviving son. He threw himself into his work right from the beginning, learning the business from the ground floor up, just as his dad had done. Although most people thought he was in the oil business, in his mind and in the minds of his predecessors, Davis International was in the energy business. He was quick to point out that, although today it was primarily oil, for ecological and economical reasons tomorrow it would surely be another source and Davis International would fil the needs.
There were always women around––he had the looks and the personality, and of course, there was the money––but Alan never met anyone who could ful y capture his attention. And then Dan introduced him to his cousin Aly. Aludra Mil ar, nicknamed Aly, was not merely beautiful and al uring; she was captivating. She was as kind and honest as she was intel igent and funny. Alan the businessman and entrepreneur didn’t interest her nearly as much as Alan the man. Nothing could have been more refreshing. Alan could easily let down his guard in her presence and laugh at himself, some-thing he rarely did. In Lebanon, where Aly was born, she lived with her parents in the heart of Beirut, a place of constant turmoil. Like her mother before her, she was raised a Muslim. She studied the Qur’an with as much vigor as she did Arabic and English. She could speak both without a trace of an accent.
She was seventeen when breast cancer fel ed her mother. Devastated, her father, James Mil ar, an English literature professor at American University in Beirut, decided to return to the States. He accepted a professorship at New York University in Manhattan because it suited his esoteric teaching style. Aly enrol ed at NYU, not because her father taught there, but because it was one of the only schools in the area with a comprehensive Islamic religious studies program. She was in her first year of graduate school, then focusing on Muslim studies in the context of a capitalist society, when her cousin arranged for