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the agency had hired me to “retire” Belghazi, not to protect
him. So if this didn’t go well, their next candidate for a
retirement package would probably be me.
But the way I saw it, saving Belghazi from the guy I now
thought of as Karate would be doing Uncle Sam a favor. After all,
Karate could fail to make it look natural, or get caught, or do some
other sloppy thing, and then there would be misunderstandings,
and suspicions, and accusations–exactly the kinds of problems the
Agency had hired me to avoid.
Of course, there was also the matter of my getting paid. If
Karate got to Belghazi first and I couldn’t claim credit, I might be
out of a check, and that wouldn’t be very fair, would it?
I thought of this guy as Karate because my suspicions about him
had first jelled when I saw him doing karate kata, or forms, in the
gym of the Macau Mandarin Oriental Hotel, where we were both
staying and where Belghazi was soon to arrive. Avoiding the facility’s
tangle of Lifecycles and Cybex machines, he had focused instead
on a series of punches, blocks, and kicks to the air that, to the
uninitiated, might have looked like some kind of martial dance
routine. Actually, his moves were good–smooth, practiced, and
powerful. They would have been impressive in any twenty-year-old,
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