The Enemy Within

Wearing a light jacket over an open-necked shirt, Sefer Halovic stood waiting outside his motel room early the next morning. He didn’t have to wait long. A rusty blue sedan an old Chevrolet turned off the road and roared straight across the gravel lot toward him at high speed. He forced himself to stand still as the car squealed to a stop right beside him.

Burke and McGowan were in front. Keller sat in the back “Get in,” the older man ordered.

Halovic obeyed, careful to keep his hands in plain view at all times. He didn’t like the tone of Burke’s voice or the strain he could see on his face and those of Keller and McGowan. These men were operating on a hair trigger and that was dangerous both for him and for them.

With McGowan at the wheel, the Chevrolet skidded out of the motel parking lot and turned north onto Route 250. They crossed the lames River in silence and headed east on Route 6.

After several minutes, Halovic risked a question. “Where are we going?”

“Richmond,” Burke replied tersely.

Richmond? Why there?

Keller handed him a manila envelope. “Read this.”

Suppressing any questions, Halovic leafed though a sheaf of newspaper clippings and typewritten pages. They all concerned one man a prosperous local black businessman named John Malcolm. The first clipping, a few years old, described a new youth training program launched by Malcolm. Other articles described the success of the program and his further ventures. He was active in several social circles, and he was a popular speaker at local schools and community meetings. One of the last clippings speculated on Malcolm’s chances as a candidate in an upcoming congressional race.

The typewritten pages were a detailed dossier on Malcolm. They listed his home and business address, his children’s schools, his wife’s work, his church, his closest associates, and every aspect of his daily routine.

Halovic was impressed. Someone had done a great deal of research on this man and his movements. Its purpose was obvious. Malcolm was targeted for some sort of action by Burke’s group. He was precisely the sort of black man they would hate and fear most prominent, successful, and socially accepted. Judging by the dates, it was something they had been planning for quite some time.

He finished reading and looked up at the older man. “For what reason do you show me this?”

“We want you to kill him.”

Halovic nodded slowly. Two possibilities confronted him. If these men really were neo-Nazi radicals, this was a test of his sincerity, and by their standards, of his bravery. That was understandable. On the other hand, if Burke, McGowan, and Keller were police informers or agents, this was a trap a ploy to have him condemn himself out of his own mouth.

To buy time to think, he stared for a moment at the quiet wooded countryside streaming past before glancing back at Burke. “And if I do?”

“We’ll deal. Weapons for cash.”

Halovic considered his chances coldly. If they were serious, his course of action was clear. Killing Malcolm meant nothing to him. All that mattered was the risk of discovery. Of capture. Of failure. Of course, refusing would also mean failure. Burke and his followers would never risk continued contact with a man they did not trust. That much was certain.

He studied the dossier again. The material it contained was well organized and complete. There were no airy assumptions, no unnecessary rhetoric. It was all very professional. And his companions, while reactionary, did not appear excessively sloppy or wholly stupid.

Questions swirled in his mind. Why hadn’t they assassinated this man themselves? He wasn’t naive enough to think he’d just happened to show up at the right time.

Halovic sensed the others waiting with mounting impatience. He had taken a reasonable amount of time to ponder his answer, but if he waited any longer, he would be stalling, both them and himself. There was no other data to be had. And delay could be fatal in more than one way. Decide, he told himself sharply.

Stung into action, he nodded. “Very well. I will kill this black man for you.” Almost by reflex a workable plan popped into his brain. “You have a weapon for me?”

Burke glanced at Keller. “Show it to him, Dave.”

The younger man reached into a brown paper bag between his feet and pulled out a brand-new pair of gardening gloves, a 9mm automatic, a separate eight-round clip, and a bulky, cylindrical silencer.

Halovic recognised weapon as a Smith & Wesson Mark 22 a silenced model first used during the Vietnam War by U.S. Navy commandos. They had called it the Hush Puppy.

“There’s a rifle in the trunk if you want it instead,” Burke said.

Halovic shook his head. He would complete this operation at close range. “The pistol will suffice.”

“It’s cold,” Keller said reassuringly. In answer to Halovic’s questioning look, he explained, “it’s not traceable. A dealer at a gun show traded it to us years ago. He doesn’t keep records.”