Brotherhood and Others

by Mark Sullivan

  “Diamond,” Gahji rasped. “Not yours.”

  “I’m a thief,” Monarch explained, moved to tears.

  Gahji blinked at the rain, said, “I hope some hell finds…”

  The boy soldier’s words died in his throat and he stopped blinking at the rain. Monarch was overcome for a moment and he sobbed for Gahji and for Robin, the boy who’d died that night in the basement in Buenos Aires.

  “Rogue!”

  Tat’s voice boomed to him over the pounding of the rain.

  For a moment, Monarch was unable to respond. Then he tore his attention away from the dead boy, looking through the storm to see the big Samoan holding a bullhorn.

  “We have fuel issues,” Tats said. “It’s now or you wait six hours.”

  Monarch’s attention fell to Fasi, who stood knee-deep in the water, back to the chopper, looking as miserable as a wet terrier.

  Ever since Monarch was a young boy, he’d developed the ability to compartmentalize, to shove events and thoughts away and lock them. It was the only way he had been able to stay sane.

  So he shut off the image of Gahji dying and of Robin dying, and he set off through the water toward the pygmy. He held the little man by the back of the harness as he waded out deeper toward the rope dangling from the helicopter. A solid twelve feet of it writhed on the lake surface.

  Monarch snagged the rope, snapped Fasi’s carabineer to one of the loops closest to the helicopter, and his own to one of the very last before giving a thumbs-up to Tatupu and the pilot.

  The chopper rose slowly. Tats set the winch in motion. The pygmy rose out of the water, riding up into the sky with Monarch lifting below him. Ten feet above the water, he heard Fasi laughing over the noise of the chopper.

  The pygmy looked down at Monarch, grinning like a madman.

  “Flying!” he yelled. “I’m fly—!”

  The flat crack of a rifle reached Monarch at the same time Fasi took the bullet through the throat and slumped and hung from the harness and rope like a marionette without a master.

  Monarch’s head swung around. Another helicopter hovered in the fog right at the jungle’s edge. Lieutenant Zed sat in the open bay door, grinning, lowering the gun to admire his marksmanship before swinging his weapon Monarch’s way.

  Tatupu fired twice at the rebel leader, driving him deeper inside the helicopter, which banked away into the fog and disappeared as quickly as it had come. Monarch stared after it as he began to rise and fly away into the storm because he could not bear to look at the little body dangling above him.

  Two days later …

  Nairobi, Kenya

  4:00 P.M.

  Monarch sat on a terrace by the pool at the Serena Hotel, trying to numb himself with another rum and tonic. Three had not worked, so he’d ordered a fourth and fifth, which the waiter placed on the table in front of him.

  As he started in on the fourth cocktail, Monarch’s thoughts gathered darkly on the image of Fasi’s corpse hanging above him, and then on the image of himself as Robin, lying on the floor of the basement, and then on an older woman with long iron-gray hair and a kindly face.

  Why had the miracle of that woman happened to him, and not to a boy like Gahji? Why had she saved him? So he could shoot three boys and cause the death of an innocent man trying to do the right thing?

  He thought about the gray-haired woman and wished she could be here to listen to him, to help him see how he should handle this. But though he kept in contact with her regularly, she knew little of his current life.

  Would she even understand? What? That his life was out of balance again? That his wrongs once again outweighed the good things he’d done?

  Before he could come up with answers to any of those questions, Gloria Barnett walked up wearing a floppy hat, a long-sleeved blouse, and cotton pants that protected her fair skin and gangly body from the scorching African sun.

  She took in the three spent cocktails, the full one on the table, and the one he was drinking.

  “Never knew you to do a lot of boozing,” she observed, taking a seat beside him

  “First time for everything,” Monarch said, and drained the drink, signaled to the waiter for another. “You want something?”

  “A Tusker,” she said. “Cold, please.”

  The waiter walked away, leaving an awkward silence.

  Finally, Barnett said, “They have people at the agency who help with this kind of thing.”

  “You mean being a kid-killer?” he asked sardonically. “Or someone who sacrifices pygmies for the United States of America?”

  “Those boys were going to kill you,” Barnett shot back. “I had a bird’s-eye view, remember? You had no choice. And Fasi made a choice to help you. His people and those boys will be better off because of his sacrifice.”

  “That right?” Monarch asked sarcastically.

  “Yes,” she insisted. “Once the Congolese were told about the quality of the diamonds in that mine, they began moving their best troops east to go in there. Zed won’t last the month. Those boys will be helped. The pygmies in the area will be helped. And the mine will be nationalized to protect the diamonds for science.”

  “Which means Fasi’s family, what’s left of them, will get nothing,” Monarch said bitterly. “If I had my way, they’d get it all.”

  “I know you want to go back in and impose your own sense of justice on the situation, Monarch, but you did your job, and despite everything that happened, you did it brilliantly. We have the diamond. Great good will be done with it now.”

  Monarch picked up the fifth cocktail, said, “Sorry, but it doesn’t feel brilliant to me at all.”

  “How does it feel then?”

  He drank hard off the rum and tonic, said, “Like I’m a conniving thief who somehow always manages to escape with his own skin intact while others suffer the consequences.”

  “It’s all the story you tell yourself,” Barnett replied.

  “Yeah, well, I think I need a break from this story. From all of this.”

  “I can give you four days,” she said. “Slattery says we’re needed in Istanbul by the end of the week.”

  It was the last thing Monarch wanted. “What’s there to steal in Istanbul?”

  Barnett finished her beer, said, “I’ll let you know when I know and text you the itinerary. We’ll fly Friday.”

  Monarch nodded, but with zero enthusiasm. He had four days to get his head straight, four days to deal with the aftermath of what had happened back there in the jungle.

  But how was he supposed to do that? He didn’t have his head straight about things that had happened fifteen and twenty years ago. Was he to spend his entire life conflicted about his past?

  For years, Monarch had felt good about his life since leaving Buenos Aires and La Fraternidad. As a Special Forces operator and a CIA field agent he’d believed he was using his hard-won skills for a nobler purpose, the good of the U.S. government and the American people.

  But the events of the past few days had frayed Monarch’s clear purpose to the point of breaking. He knew this feeling, like he was teetering on the rim of a dark precipice. Twice before in his life—the night his parents died, and the night the boy he knew as Robin died—he’d been hurled off cliffs of abysmal change, and yet both times and with help he’d survived and escaped into a new life

  Now, for the third time, Monarch felt like he was wobbling on the edge of no going back.

  Monarch suddenly understood a cataclysmic break was inevitable. It could happen here in Nairobi, or in Istanbul, or some other city he’d never seen before. But it was coming. No doubt.

  So when the waiter came to ask him if he’d like another cocktail, Monarch shook his head and ordered two cups of espresso. When he crossed the line of no going back, he wanted to be sober enough to recognize it, survive, and escape into a new life once more.

  Read on for an excerpt of the new Robin Monarch novel

  OUTLAW

  Coming Fall 2013 from Min
otaur Books

  Copyright © 2013 by Mark Sullivan

  Prologue

  A Brewing Typhoon

  Sunday, October 28, 7:30 P.M. Hong Kong Time

  In a private dining room above an alley on the crowded peninsula of Kowloon, the Moon Dragon spooned rare tea leaves into a fired clay pot while using his peripheral vision to examine his visitor for any sign of worry.

  “You are sure that everything has been taken care of, Mr. Farley?” he asked in English as he raised the glass kettle exactly six inches above the pot and poured boiling water into it.

  A British expatriate in his mid-forties, Farley exuded a competent air when he replied, “Precisely as you requested, Mr. Long.”

  “I trust so,” Long replied, and sat back to let the tea steep.

  Long Chan-Juan was in his early fifties, and in robust health. He wore a finely tailored Hermès blue suit, starched white shirt, Parisian silk tie, hand-sewn shoes, and a rare Cartier watch, a gift from his wife. On his right hand was a gold signet ring that depicted a crescent moon and a winged lizard, an iconic representation of his name, which meant Moon Dragon in Cantonese.

  The Moon Dragon fingered the ring, said, “All records of the transactions destroyed?”

  “Of course, sir,” Farley said. “But then again, I always work with the utmost discretion.”

  Long leaned forward, and with precise and graceful gestures poured the fresh brew from the clay pot into Farley’s cup.

  “A present for you then, Mr. Farley,” the Moon Dragon said. “I just received it from the mainland. A very rare pu’er. One thousand dollars an ounce.”

  Farley looked on as Long poured a cup for himself and raised it toward the Brit. “To the future: may it be long and profitable.”

  The Brit bobbed his chin, raised his own cup, and said, “Very, very long and very, very profitable, Mr. Long.”

  The Moon Dragon smiled, sniffed, and took a sip of the tea, enjoying the pungent first pass aroma and taste. Farley took two longer sips, closed his eyes in pleasure.

  Long set his cup on the table, studying his visitor again. When Farley opened his eyes, he said, “It pleases you?”

  “Brilliantly, sir,” Farley said almost breathlessly. “That is the most exquisite tea I believe I’ve ever been fortunate enough to taste.”

  “It gets more subtle with the second and third infusions,” the Moon Dragon replied. “Truly remarkable. And it’s yours. The entire ounce.”

  Farley looked pleased, and said, “Very kind and thoughtful of you.”

  “The least I could do given the circumstances,” said Long, bowing.

  Farley drank the rest of the tea, then exclaimed, “Brilliant, Mr. Long, but I have another appointment to—”

  The Brit stopped, blinked, and then coughed. He blinked again, slower this time, and the teacup slipped from his hand and fell to the bamboo floor.

  Frightened now, Farley looked to the Moon Dragon, tried to speak, but couldn’t. He rocked forward on his elbows, and his head swung slightly as he began to fight for air.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Farley,” Long said, rising from his chair. “There was dried poison on your cup. My friends and allies like to keep things tidy, no loose ends that might come back to haunt us.”

  The Moon Dragon stood there, watching the Brit, fascinated by the spasms and tics the poison was causing. “You were a competent errand boy. You simply knew too much and would suspect our involvement in the events of the coming days. You should have foreseen that we could not chance your betrayal. I’m sure you understand now.”

  Farley’s eyes rolled up in his head and he attempted to swallow his tongue before crashing to the floor beside his teacup.

  “A few more moments,” Long said to Farley as he quivered in the throes of death. “Then you meet your ancestors. May you embrace them with great joy.”

  He went to an intercom on the wall and pushed a button. Moments later, a Mongolian man who was almost as wide as he was tall entered the room, said “Yes, Moon Dragon?”

  Long said, “Strip him, Tuul. Take him toward Macau tonight, weight, and dump him. The sea and the sharks will do the rest.”

  Monday, October 29, 7 P.M. Indochina Time

  Night and clouds took jagged bites of the fiery horizon until there was only blackness beyond the aluminum halo cast by the Niamey, a 380-foot custom oil tanker cruising at six knots in the deep, deserted waters of the South China Sea, bound for the Dung Quat refinery on the Vietnamese coast north of Ho Chi Minh City.

  On a balcony below the tanker’s bridge, Agnes Lawton stood at the railing feeling the wind and the storm coming amid sweltering heat. She had just watched the end of day near the equator, hoping to see the legendary green flash said to appear at the moment where day meets night in the tropics. She had hoped the flash would be a positive omen, but she had not seen it, and she wondered what would become of her.

  In her late fifties, attractive, a sharp intellect, a commanding personality, Agnes Lawton nevertheless feared that her current task might exceed her capacities. She hung her head and began to pray. Before she could finish her prayer, however, she heard the bulkhead door creak, and then a male voice said, “The others have asked that we adjourn for the evening.”

  Turning to face her assistant, she said, “The election is in nine days. Tell them to come out on deck, get some air, and we’ll go at it again.”

  “They’re exhausted,” Reynolds protested. “You’re exhausted. Sleep does wonders for people’s dispositions.”

  Agnes Lawton thought to argue, but then ceded the point. “I’d at least like a word with them before we retire.”

  Fifteen minutes later, belowdeck, she paused in her impromptu speech, gathering her thoughts, her attention roaming over the worn faces of the two men, a Chinese and an Indian, who sat across from her looking as if they each carried an enormous weight.

  “Both of you know that your countries seem to be at risk as much as mine,” Agnes Lawton went on. “We can’t lose sight of that fact.”

  Both men nodded gravely, rose, and reached out to shake her hand, and then they left with aides trailing them out the door.

  Gathering up her papers, she glanced at her assistant, who smiled and clapped silently. “Just the right tone, I think,” he said.

  “I hope so. If these things came to pass … well, I can’t even imagine what the world would look like.”

  Her aide bowed his head slightly. “Shall I have a snack delivered to your cabin?”

  “I’m not hungry,” she said; she snapped shut her briefcase and went out into the narrow hallway. Two men in plainclothes carrying Heckler & Koch submachine guns guarded a hatchway door at the far end. The taller of the men opened the hatch.

  Before Agnes Lawton stepped inside, she said, “Wake me at five, Steve.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the taller guard said. “Sleep well.”

  She watched him shut the door after her. Then she threw the lock, undressed and lay on the bunk in the darkness. She had heard a storm might be brewing and as she fell into sleep Agnes Lawton asked God for a peaceful night.

  * * *

  Three decks above Agnes Lawton’s stateroom, inside the oil tanker’s bridge, Jim O’Hara, the captain, was working at a computer, plotting his course. Suddenly, horrible, off-key singing came over the shortwave radio bolted to the ceiling above the helmsman.

  O’Hara cringed at the voice, screeching like a wounded cat with no hint of melody, and in a language he did not recognize. The singer sawed on a few more bars until the irritated captain walked over, reached up, and twisted down the volume. He glanced at the man at the helm.

  “You understand any of that, Manu?” he asked. “You’re from these parts, right?”

  The helmsman nodded, “He sings in Indonesian, Captain. He’s saying all Malays like to have sex with dogs. Giving and receiving.”

  “Sounds like a hit to me,” chuckled a deep male voice behind O’Hara.

  The captain looked over at a b
eefy American carrying a pistol in an exposed shoulder holster. Beside him was a considerably smaller Chinese man carrying a shotgun, and an Indian who had a pistol in a side holster and looked ready to doze.

  “You can go below and sleep,” Captain O’Hara said to the Indian. “Supposed to get weather later, but we’re right on course.” He glanced at the radar screen beside the helmsman. “Nearest vessel is two miles away. Looks like a fishing boat.”

  The American nodded and said, “Go ahead. I’ll take first…”

  His voice trailed off as he caught a shadow becoming movement out the window. And then, floating out of the night into the aluminum glow, four men appeared dangling from parachutes. They wore black head to toe, and utility vests adorned with grenades, knives, and spare clips. AK-47s dangled at their waists, held level by three-point slings.

  “We got company,” the American yelled, going for his gun.

  The captain snatched up the shortwave microphone. He turned up the sound on the receiver. The man was still screeching his obscene songs.

  The captain triggered the mic, and tried to shout over him, “Mayday! Mayday! This is the Niamey. Position…”

  O’Hara glanced at the GPS readout over the helm. But before he could spit out the longitude and latitude coordinates, the helmsman dove for the floor behind the American, the Chinese, and the Indian, who were heading toward the door, shouting into their own radios, demanding reinforcements topside.

  A fifth attacker floated by the bridge at less than ten feet. He had the butt of a Kalashnikov rifle slammed into his hip and sprayed bullets at them. The American was hit in the back. So were the Chinese and Indian. The captain grabbed for the shotgun, which the Chinese had dropped, intending to provide cover for the men coming from below.

  O’Hara never had the chance.

  He heard an explosion and then nothing ever again.

  The helmsman lowered the pistol he’d taken from the body of the dead American. He dug in his pocket for his own radio and said in dialect, “Tell him to stop singing. Bridge is clear. Deck controlled. I’m disabling SHIPLOC.”