Free Star of Egypt by Buck Sanders

dead. Which is why you have
     to watch your step, Ben.” Rarely did Winship use Slayton’s first name in this fashion.
    “Haman is particularly ruthless in the matter of retribution. He once uncovered a spy in his own group, a plant from a French
     group of corporations he was in charge of blackmailing. He promptly delivered a personal demand for twice the amount he had
     tried to extort previously—a demand that went directly to each company head, accompanied by a piece of the dead agent. His
     hands, his ears, his testicles… there were quite a few executives.” He let the implications hover in the space between himself
     and Slayton. “They paid.”
    “So if Haman places my handsome face, I can say hello to the meat grinder. Except for one thing: I don’t really think Haman
     placing me would be allowed to leak unless Haman wanted me to know he knew me.”
    “I don’t follow.”
    “He’s throwing the gauntlet down, daring me to stop him. Of course we could cancel the tour, lock the President in a bank
     vault somewhere. But to Haman that’s a chicken-hearted response. Fear is what allows him to operate freely. Cancelling the
     tour would in itself be a propaganda victory of sorts. If we
don’t
panic, and accept the challenge, we have a better chance of getting him.”
    Winship’s expression rearranged into horror at the prospect of setting up the President of the United States, which is what
     Slayton seemed to be getting at.
    “Wait, sir, wait. Now—Haman loves to be the victor, not just to do a job you could hire any thug for. It’s his style. It’s
     why his attacks are flamboyant and successful. He prefers hunting a cougar with a bowie knife and winning, rather than insuring
     his win by shooting carp in a beer barrel, if you follow my analogy.”
    The expression subdued itself, just slightly.
    “If you’ll pardon me, sir, I think Haman knows that I am about as proficient as he is. It’s a dare. Or rather, a wager—the
     winner gets the President.”
    “Jesus H. Christ on a
crutch
, Slayton!” Winship had absently gathered the papers into a neat stack on the desk, hinting that the exchange was finished
     on a factual level. “Your duty is to protect the President at any cost, not to trifle with his life to even some obscure,
     stupid score!”
    “Exactly, sir. And I think a moment ago I mentioned that I understood the depth of that commitment. Trust me.”
    Winship. snorted, calmed down a bit by now. Slayton made for the office door, turning for a parting shot.
    “And you’ll see me after this, sir, and I’ll still be in one functional piece.” The door hissed shut with a thump.
    The dour expression had become resigned. “I hope so, Benjamin,” the man behind the desk said. “Sincerely.”
    Slayton spent a while with a pot of coffee and the stack of documentation, soaking up specifics on Rashid Haman’s diverse
     inventory of atrocities. It was entirely possible that, despite the events of the last two days, Slayton had had no direct
     contact with the terrorist.
    He would have operatives waiting in the United States, people who would follow his orders—providing one of the best ways to
     execute hits and gimmicks. Fly them in, and if they live through the gimmick, fly them out. But don’t pick them off the local
     trees. The British authorities had wasted months after the gimmick that bumped off a pair of Cabinet members, rounding up
     and grilling locals, when Haman had shipped in one of his star students, a Japanese now supervising terrorist phalanges in
     his home country. While the British were convicting a couple of wackos who happened to have antigovernment diaries, the Oriental
     was enjoying a drink on the plane home. Now, like Haman, this man also farmed out work for money whenever he needed folding
     cash.
    Which brought up another ugly point, which became even more apparent as Slayton delved into the new dossiers: Haman was no
     patriot. He needed a formidable cash-flow