by Tony Bulmer
“Where was the last contact?”
“Qasim International Container Terminal, Karachi Pakistan. Our friend the general wasn’t wasting any time. He wanted those EMP bombs out of the country just as soon as he could get rid of them.”
“Figures he would do that. Port Qasim is a regular pirates cove. They got so many millions of tons of cargo moving in and out of there every day—you could ship a bomb the size of the Chrysler building through there and no one would blink an eye. Question is—where is he moving the bombs?”
“That we don’t know, at least not for sure. The only clues we have, are the itineraries of the container vessels shipping out of Quasim container terminal in the period immediately after the bomb trackers went black.”
“Well, that’s just peachy. We’ve got nuclear activated EMP weapons shipping out to God knows where in the world, and they could be inside any one of maybe a million different steel boxes.”
“You are right of course, but when you cross reference that list of departures with a list of countries that our ideologically tainted friends in Pakistan might want to mount and attack against, that list gets real short.”
Karyn examined Jack Senegar’s face very closely. The grey eyes reflected her gaze. She thought for the briefest of moments she saw signs of concern in his eyes. But, as his brow furrowed ever deeper, she knew she was wrong. Jack Senegar was madder than hell. And that meant someone somewhere was heading for a whole world of hurt.
“So where are the bombs?”
Senegar’s face twitched, the frown growing ever deeper.
“Jesus Jack. They are shipping those things Stateside?”
“We don’t know for sure. One freighter on the list is heading south to Buenos Aires; another is heading through the Suez Canal to Rotterdam. But the one we got a real interest in, is heading east bound, for North Korea.”
“If the North Koreans get their hands on those things they will clone them—fit them on every missile they have. It would give them the power they have been seeking for decades, those crazy-assed despots could turn the entire civilized world back a hundred years with that kind of technology.” She paused. “We have got the Navy on this already right?”
Jack Senegar threw her a tight smile, and drummed his fingers on the table. Then he reached inside his jacket and drew something out.
He slid her rosary across the table.
She looked at the silver crucifix coiled amongst the rosary beads.
“So, we fly Stateside. Head this thing off at the pass?”
Jack Senegar breathed deep; took a shot of whisky and said—
“We aren’t going to the States. We are going to Mumbai India.”
24
Hunts Point, the South Bronx, New York City
By the time the black Maybach limousine exited the Bruckner Expressway Irving King was already excited. It was night. The very darkest of nights and the rain had been falling for hours. The atmosphere added to the danger, for the South Bronx was a forgotten land, of poverty and decline that existed outside the gamut of normal ‘polite’ society. Those who knew avoided the South Bronx, those who didn’t, would scarcely believe that such a place could exist in modern America. But exist it did, and Irving King loved it, for it was here that the streets were colored with desperation in a way that no other borough could match—drug dealers, prostitutes, criminality of every kind, the neighborhood was literally seething with malfeasance. Amongst it all, fly-blown businesses struggled with their faded signs to meet the needs of a desperate populace, but not one of them would rise above subsistence level in this cursed realm, the grim towers of social housing marching endlessly along the banks of the east river stood testament to that.
The predicament of Hunts Point was not something that bothered Irving King however. For him, the neighborhood was a playground, providing as it did an endless supply of victims eager to prostrate themselves before his will. Any kind of fantasy no matter how twisted or perverse could be bought in this place of tragedy. The ravaged streets would accommodate any kind of need or desire—for a price. But for Irving King, a man who could buy the entire borough many times over, money was no object and tonight he had a very specific scenario in mind. He sat on the back seat of the limousine, resplendent in his white silk-cashmere suit. He was not a young man by any means, but that was never a concern. Irving King adjusted his tie ensuring that it was tight to the very top of his four-button collar Style and good taste were timeless indicators of superior breeding. It was the details that mattered. Such things separated the higher man—the Humanisitian from the realm of savagery. He looked through the thick, bulletproof window into the glistening night. The street people were out, thronging every street corner, looking to sell or be sold.
As the black, rain-slick limousine headed east of Garrison Avenue, King felt his pants growing tighter. The girls were out tonight, swarming the boulevard like flies and how desperate they looked, even more desperate than usual. Rain felt bad on junkie flesh and it kept the tricks away. King smiled wide with happiness.
The whores had been sheltering their day away in the Dollar Down Diner, drinking cheap coffee and chaining endless cigarettes. Others would have been swilling hard liquor at Club Thrust on 156th and Garrison, watching every twitch of the door in the hope they could salvage some scratch from the dime-bag afternoon. Yes, it was an auspicious night tonight. A night which would see his every need fulfilled—a quenching, albeit temporary fix, to satisfy his ceaseless desire for dominion over others.
The deal, of course, had gone forwards and now Ploutos Capital was poised to become one of the most successful companies the world had ever seen, with profits that exceeded the GDP of many countries. The deal. It was all about the deal, even in the picayune world of the South Bronx. But for Irving King, the deal with Zhàn Tao was like no other, it would throw the entire world on its head, bankrupting governments and heralding in the new world order of Humanistian leadership. And what a world it would be. Mankind would be free at last, unfettered by the rule of government, free to achieve success without limit. There would of course be failure too, but such failure was the natural way of things. It was the task of the higher man to build his success from the crumbling ashes of such failure, so that the new and natural man—the Humanistian might stand proud and strong, moving forwards in to the glorious new future of mankind.
But now, as the limousine cruised the boulevard, there was only one consideration riding forward in Irving King’s mind—the African American girl from the Huds Helman Radio show. He just couldn’t get her out of his mind—how low and salacious she was—her tight, curvaceous body glistening inside that tiny little dress. He played back their meeting over and over again, fantasizing, obsessing, his fevered mind pouring over every over-adorned detail, from her cheap jewelry to her whoreish make-up. He had noticed her staring. The very moment he walked in the studio, her recalcitrant black eyes had been upon him—taunting him. It had been almost too much to bear, hearing her words of mockery and disrespect dripping like poison from those wet, over-glossed lips. Erin Francelle was an enemy of the worst kind, a sneering pseudo-intellectual and apologist for the underclass; the young slattern had no respect for her betters. Sitting there in the studio, he wanted to punish her and yet paradoxically he also wanted to possess her. He hated himself for his weakness. He just could not get the Francelle woman out of his mind, nor could he banish the brutal fantasies for conquering her spirit. Her insolence would not go unpunished. He would crush her completely. No expense would be spared. Her personal, professional and family life would be trampled down, until she was broken and utterly discredited. Only then would he be able to rest easy. But, until that time, an outlet would be needed to channel away the aggression and sexual frustration that was boiling within him.
He was no stranger to savage compulsion. Many times he had sought a similar outlet to his frustrations. He had travelled far to see his needs met—the shantytown suburbs of Africa and South and Central America.
But the South Bronx was much closer to home, and it seemed only fitting that a neighborhood that offered only unhappiness to so many should offer the most delectable of satisfactions to him.
He saw the girl smoking a cigarette on the corner of Longfellow and Lafayette, not far from a run down Laundromat. The neighborhood pressed in around them, seven story walk up apartments and an endless parade of grim, windowless industrial buildings, throwing shadows across the streets. The pick-up was quite perfunctory—five bills up front saw to that. Five was quite a score for a South Bronx street girl. She was full of talk, of course. Such girls always were. Irving King had no time for such banter. He merely perched on the black leather bench seat and observed. Under the streetlights the girl had looked much younger, but now inside the car, the illusion of youth was swept away. She was over thin and had a sallow complexion, all vitality drained by a steady diet of reckless living and hard drugs. Irving King narrowed his eyes, watched her sitting there, her cheap micro dress clinging so closely to her body. There was a passing resemblance. As the streetlights flashed by, followed by hypnotic bands of darkness, he could almost imagine that the Francelle woman was sitting there in front of him, rather than some junkie whore from the South Bronx.
The girl was still talking, yackity-yackity-yack; it was nervous talk—questions—like she was doubting even in her narcotic torpor the wisdom of the transaction she had just made.
“Shut up,” he ordered.
The girl looked at him then, her wet over-glossed lips looking pouty, working silently in the prelude to some big question. The lips were the same, the very same as the Francelle woman. He heard the words again cycling back to him dripping poison and disrespect—mocking him.
He reached out the gun then, a snub nosed .357 Taurus. He laid it across his lap, the darkness of the barrel chasming deep.
The girl fell silent, hardly daring to breathe.
Streetlights flipped past.
They passed the American Bank Note building.
The darkness closed in.
A jet, its landing gear down, swooped low for La Guardia.
He said, “We are going to play a game.”
“I like games.”
“Not this one, I can guarantee that.”
25
Rockefeller Centre, New York City
Huds Helman leaned into the studio microphone and whispered almost tearfully, “Ladies and Gentlemen. We have been privileged in the past to welcome many great American heroes on to this show. But, tonight, I give you a hero like no other. He is a man who escaped certain death at the murderous hands of a gang of al-Qaeda loving suicide bombers. And not only that dear listeners, this proud, brave man fought back single handed against a savage gang of gun-toting Chinese radicals, and by some God-given miracle, managed to survive a hail of deadly gunfire to be with us tonight—” The Hudster’s voice was wavering with emotion now, so much so he had to reach for his deeply filled brandy snifter. He took a large gulp of the fiery contents then paused, collecting his thoughts. Huds Helman’s lips struggled with the emotion of his deeply held patriotism. Finally, he said, “I would like to welcome on to the show, The Secretary of State for the United States of America, Truman Whitaker.”
Whitaker had been lounging in his studio chair, listening with great pleasure to the dramatic introduction. He gave a modest, manful smile, betraying the torment of a man who has soldiered through endless adversity. “Thank you for your support Huds and for that of your many, many listeners out there in radio land. Your kind words mean a lot to me.”
Huds Helman’s chest swelled outwards with undisclosed pride. “Thank you Mr. Secretary. I know you have selflessly taken time out of your very busy schedule to speak with us this evening and I would like to say thanks to you, on behalf of every man, woman and child in this great nation of ours for standing up against those al-Qaeda loving Commie radicals.”
Truman Whitaker gave a sigh and nodded, “Your support is appreciated Huds, but I was doing nothing more than my duty as freedom loving patriot.”
Erin Francelle twisted her lips and interjected, “Early reports from the official Chinese news agency stated that Americans were behind the terrorist incident at the Deng Tao funeral. How do you explain those reports Mr. Secretary?”
Truman Whitaker turned to face Erin, his eyebrows raised, as though he had just been thrown the dumbest question ever. He paused, let a toothy smile drift almost sadly across his face then oozed, “You have to understand—Erin that the Chinese are a highly strung people, that is not a criticism, but they really do not hold themselves to the same high standards of journalistic integrity as we do here in the United States. Rather than focusing on areas where our Chinese friends need to try harder, it would perhaps be better if we focused on the very many areas where we can move forwards together.”
“They said the CIA were responsible for the killings at the funeral.”
Huds Helman interrupted in a very loud voice, “Of course they did. Those Godless Commies blame the CIA for everything, even the weather forecast. Ain’t that right Mr. Secretary?”
The rictus grin on Truman Whitaker’s face remained in place, but his eyes flitted nervously, as though seeking the nearest escape route—then, realizing there wasn’t one; he froze for a long moment. He was trapped like a fish in a bucket and the harpoon like questions were thrusting in from all sides. This wasn’t the way he had imagined things would be at all. He had done a dozen press conference briefings since his return and maybe a hundred interviews or more. But the Helman show was the only media outlet that truly held America’s interest. Huds Helman was a national hero, a freewheeling fast-talking veteran of the NFL, a true-blooded conservative who held the nations ear—if you wanted to be anything in America, you had to come out good on the Helman show, or face ignominy, as an outcast of popular culture. Such failure was unthinkable to any sort of career minded politician. Truman Whitaker felt the terror welling up within him. If he failed now, blew his big chance, his shot at the presidency would be ruined. The Helman show was syndicated to every bar room and gym locker in the entire country, he had to make an impression now, or be damned for all eternity.
Truman Whitaker forced a tight smile. “You are right of course Huds. Socialism is a failed and discredited ideology the world over, but one must realize that our Chinese friends are still battling their way out of a heritage that has held them back these many years—a brave and admirable journey, that with our support and encouragement will, before long, see them enjoying the very many benefits and freedoms that we here in the United States take for granted.”
Huds Helman thrust a stubby finger into the sound-effects board and the sound of the Star-Spangled Banner sounded out across the airwaves. “We never take our freedom for granted on this show do we Erin?” roared Huds Helman. “We have to be vigilant at all times, or the second amendment naysayers will be stealing away our guns, our bibles and our very right to freedom itself.”
Truman Whitaker saw his chance, “That will never happen on my watch Huds, of that you have my word as a proud American.”
“What about your wife? Those terrorists kidnapped her didn’t they?” interrupted Erin. “What were you doing exactly when that happened Mr. Secretary?”
Truman Whitaker closed his eyes, drawing now on every ounce of dramatic skill he possessed. He blinked, then gave a deep sigh, as though a great sadness had suddenly descended upon him. He paused a long moment, dialing himself back from the emotional precipice. He drew his fingers down the livid bruise on the side of his face—the bruise Karyn Kane had given him when she hit him. He let the fingers pause at the plaster just above his right eye then said, slowly, “The situation there was very chaotic Erin, I don’t know if you have ever experienced the explosion of a terrorist bomb, I hesitate to describe the carnage, as I wouldn’t like to upset your listeners, but you can be assured the scene was absolutely horrific—human devastation everywhere, and no sooner had the explosion occurred, then those monsters wit
h machine guns were upon us, slaughtering the injured survivors—mowing down everyone in their path. I fought off as many as I could, with my bare hands, but there were too many of them. I am told that the only reason I made it through, was that I was brutally clubbed around the head with a rifle butt and left for dead. Unfortunately for them, they didn’t realize they were dealing with a U.S. Army veteran.” He paused once again, sniffed back the emotion, then continued, “So, in answer to your question Erin, I was unaware of the exact moment those terrorist monsters tore my beloved wife from my side, but I can assure you of this, I will move heaven and earth to get her back, even if I have to return over seas and bring her home myself.”
Huds Helman could restrain himself no longer, “You hear that America? That is the sound of God-fearing Patriotism, right here tonight.” He turned to Truman Whitaker and said, “If there was any justice at all in this world, we would have sent our troops into that Commie loving hell hole and snatched that wife of yours back. But I am guessing those go-slow congressional pantywaisters are still crying over the nano-details. What in the hell is the matter with this country that it should have come to this? A bunch of liberal hacks pulling each others toggles the whole day long, rather than getting anything done?”
Truman Whitaker nodded gravely. “You are quite right Huds, of course you are, and you must know I would change that situation in a heartbeat if I had the juice to make that happen. But unfortunately, my hands are tied right now. You ask me, that is the problem with the D.C. scene—everything is tied up tight in red tape, so as it is strangling the life-blood out of the entire country. We need to cut through the bureaucracy and make this country great again.”