The Enemy Within

He scowled to himself. The shooting range had been another waste of time. The people he’d met had been friendly enough, and they were certainly well versed in the workings of their various weapons, but none of them had been the least bit interested in his racial or political views. Worse from his viewpoint, the Walker’s Landing Rod and Gun Club had seemed merely a wellarmed version of the Elks, or Lions, or some other kind of American civic organisation. It was not the sort of place that would attract the kinds of men he had come looking for.

So again he quietly sipped beer and conversed with the regulars. They seemed to accept him more today at least in the sense that they were willing to challenge some of his wilder statements. One fellow named Jeff Dickerson, short, pudgy, and in his thirties, seemed to have come in with that as his express purpose. Halovic remembered him from last night. Dickerson had walked out right after he had uttered something about blacks and Jews causing most of the problems in the world. Now the man was back.

That played right into Halovic’s hands. This man Dickerson was intent on a reasoned debate, so he gave him one. He was careful to keep the conversation unemotional, since an argument might cause them to be ejected from the bar. At a minimum an argument would drive other listeners away. And Halovic wanted listeners.

Speaking softly and calmly, he articulated a carefully thought-out worldview in which “lesser races” were the cause of many of the world’s current problems. Knowing he would need such information, he had spent many hours studying the neo-Nazi pamphlets and other literature Taleh’s agents had obtained in the United States and Europe. Now he repeated some of those same phrases, and quoted from German and American fringe writers who’d published books like The Jewish Crime and Genetics and Race. He also mentioned the Christian Bible frequently, selectively citing passages that supported his views.

Halovic didn’t believe any of it himself. In fact, he found their arguments and “facts” pathetic almost comical. Islam, true Islam, recognised no racial divisions among the Faithful. Nevertheless, the man he was supposed to he would have believed in his hatreds with his whole heart and soul, and he had no compunctions about spouting such nonsense as long as it furthered his mission.

It was not a fair fight. The American was motivated by honest conviction and limited by logic. Halovic, whose only goal was to widely air a racist philosophy, used or abandoned logic as he chose. Always friendly, always convincing, he manufactured facts and statistics, the more outrageous the better. And in the end, after almost an hour of intense discussion, the other man stormed out, thoroughly disgusted.

Inside, Halovic smiled. He’d watched the others in the bar while he’d argued with Dickerson. Most had at least been aware of the conversation. Some had tuned in surreptitiously, listening to the verbal cut and thrust with interest.

Nobody else seemed immediately eager to take up the racial gauntlet he’d thrown down, so he sat alone quietly, watching television while he waited again for his efforts to bear fruit.

A little after seven, two men entered the bar. Halovic, who reflexively kept one eye on the door, only noticed their arrival among the after-dinner crowd because one of the pair gestured in his direction and said something to his companion.

Both came over to him right away. The first offered his hand and said, “I’m Tony McGowan. We talked yesterday.”

Halovic took it, remembering the tall, black-haired man. He hadn’t said much, but he’d always been nearby, in easy earshot.

The other man was older, in his fifties, with rougher features and brown hair cropped almost as short as Halovic’s. He was built like a wrestler gone to seed, bulging muscles gone slack or turned to fat. He also extended his hand. “Name’s Jim Burke. J hear you’re looking to do a little shooting.”

Halovic nodded. “Ja. I shot some today at your gun club here.” He allowed his disappointment to show on his face and in his voice.

Burke smiled thinly. “Pretty tame, isn’t it? Nothing much exciting to shoot at out there. A few regulation targets and some old cans and bottles.”

McGowan chimed in. “Real little-old-lady stuff.”

Halovic nodded cautiously.

Burke took the barstool next to him and signaled the bartender for three more beers. He leaned closer. “A few of us have a range we’ve set up on some private property. We can cut loose a little more out there than they do at the gun club. Anyway, we were wondering if you’d like to join us out there tomorrow. Say, around noon.”

Halovic thought fast.

Were these men what they claimed to be, friendly locals simply looking for a chance to show off their weapons and skills to a foreign visitor? Unlikely, he decided. Tomorrow was a weekday, a workday for most of these people.