Another reflection of how the Troll saw himself were the two enormous, snow-white Caucasian Ovcharkas, Argus and Drako, who never left his side. Weighing close to two hundred pounds each and standing over forty-one inches at the shoulder, these giants were the dogs of choice for the Russian military and the former East German border patrol. They were extremely athletic and absolutely vicious when it came to strangers intruding on their territory. They made perfect guardians for the Troll’s island domain. And most important for a man who made his livelihood dealing in the art of duplicity and blackmail, the dogs could never be turned against him. In fact, he’d always had an odd premonition that the dogs might one day save his life.

Tonight, Argus and Drako sat warily near the fire as a powerful summer storm raged outside. Despite the warmth and its siren’s call to sleep, their eyes were glued to the man who had just arrived at the castle.

“Whisky?” asked the Troll, offering his guest a drink.

“I don’t drink,” replied the man, his dark, narrow eyes bracketing a once prominent Bedouin nose. “I’m surprised. I thought you would have known more about me.”

The Troll smiled as he poured himself two fingers of Germain-Robin Brandy. “Abdul Ali, aka Ahmed Ali, Imad Hasan, and Ibrahim Rahman. Date of birth unknown. Place of birth also unknown, though Western intelligence speculates somewhere in North Africa, most likely Algeria or Morocco, hence the CIA’s cognomen of “the Berber.”

“Even though no Western intelligence agency has been able to obtain a photo of you, it is speculated that you have undergone multiple plastic surgeries to change your appearance. You speak more than five languages and are at home in at least a dozen countries worldwide, more than half of them in the West. For all intents and purposes, you’re a ghost-a man who travels wherever he wants, whenever he wants, with no one ever knowing if he was really there or not.

“It is believed you have both prior special operations and military intelligence training, though with whom no one can, or will, say. You have been suspected in more than thirty-six terrorist attacks on Western targets and have been directly implicated in eleven high-profile assassinations-two of which were MI-6 agents, three Mossad, and four more who were deep-cover operatives for the CIA.

“Your height has been listed as anywhere from five-foot-eight to six-foot-five, you have a spear- shaped birthmark on the back of your left shoulder, and are, in short, one of the highest-priority targets for every organized intelligence agency in the Western world.”

Ali was impressed. “That’s very good. Everything except for the birthmark. I do not have one.”

“You do now,” replied the Troll. “I had it inserted in your file and cross-confirmed by three separate sources. It may come in handy someday. Consider it a bonus. Al-Qaeda has given me a considerable amount of business over the years.” The Troll then climbed up into his desk chair and said, “Let’s talk about why you’re here.”

“You know why I’m here.”

“Of course I do. Your man in Somalia, Mohammed bin Mohammed.”

Ali nodded his head.

“Everything I was able to uncover is in the file I forwarded to your superiors. I don’t understand your need to see me in person.”

“I have learned that even in our delicate line of work, there is no substitute for meeting face-to-face.”

“Be that as it may, this is still highly unusual,” replied the Troll as he cradled the snifter in his diminutive hands.

“So are the circumstances surrounding Mohammed’s disappearance.”

“Mr. Ali, the only reason I have agreed to meet with you is because of my long-standing business relationship with your superiors. If you have something to ask me, please do so.”

Ali studied the Troll for several moments before responding. “I’d like you to tell me what you uncovered.”

“Like I said, it’s all in the file. I am very meticulous about my work.”

“As am I, but sometimes small details have a way of getting left out.”

“I don’t leave out details-small or otherwise,” said the Troll.

“You never know. Something that may have seemed inconsequential at the time might turn out to be quite important to us now. Please. Humor me.”

The Troll took a long sip of brandy. He knew that lying to the man could prove to be a very bad mistake. There was no telling if al-Qaeda had a piece of the puzzle he was not aware of. All he could do was stick to his plan. It was inevitable that they would come to interrogate him. He was one of the few people who knew where Mohammed bin Mohammed had been hiding. “Your man in Somalia was targeted by an American covert action team.”

“American,” repeated Ali, “not Israeli? You’re sure of that?”

“As the file I sent your superiors clearly states, he was taken by a private vessel to waters off the eastern seaboard of the United States and then flown by helicopter to somewhere in New York City.”

“And he is still alive?”

“From what I understand, but he wasn’t in very good health to begin with. Apparently he has a serious-”

“Kidney problem,” interjected Ali, finishing the Troll’s sentence for him. “We know.”

“To his credit, it seems to be making his interrogation quite difficult for his captors.”

“This is where I get confused. If it was the Americans, why would they bring him to America straightaway? Why not take him to a cooperative country for interrogation first?”

“I don’t interpret intelligence, Mr. Ali. I simply facilitate its transfer. Now, if there’s nothing else?”

“Actually, there is,” said the assassin. As his hand moved toward the inside of his sport coat, the Ovcharkas began to growl.

The Troll placed his finger on the tiny trigger of a special customized weapon recessed beneath his desk and with his other hand signaled the dogs to be silent.

Well aware that there was a weapon trained on his stomach, Ali slowly removed a piece of paper from his jacket, leaned forward, and slid it across the desk.

The Troll took his time in reading it. Now, the al-Qaeda operative’s real reason for wanting to meet face-to-face was out in the open. “Your organization doesn’t pay me for advice, but I’m going to give you some anyway. No charge. Cut your losses and move on. Even if I could pinpoint his exact location, what you are suggesting is suicide. It can’t be done.”

“That’s not your concern. All we want to know is if you can put a team and equipment in place by the specified date.” said Ali.

“With enough money anything is possible, but-”

“Twenty million dollars, on top of which you’ll be paid twice your normal fee and a bonus of five million once the operation has been successfully completed.”

“Meaning once you have recovered your colleague.”

Ali nodded his head. “Think of it as an added incentive.”

The Troll was silent for several moments as he pretended to reflect upon the offer. They had played right into his hands. With this kind of money he would have enough to buy what he needed from his contact at the NSA, but his mole at the Department of Defense would be much more expensive. Nevertheless, he was confident he could get the information he needed with plenty of money left to spare. Finally, he said, “The biggest problem I see you facing, Mr. Ali, is time. If you can allow for more, it might help increase your probability of success.”

“No, there is no more time. Mohammed is scheduled to complete a very sensitive transaction for us in the very near future.”

“Then I would suggest you get somebody else to do it.”

“There is nobody else. The man Mohammed has been negotiating with will only deal with him. If Mohammed fails to appear, we forfeit our place in line and the man will simply contact the next prospective buyer. If that happens, we will end up losing much more than just a highly valued member of our organization.”