The Evil That Men Do

by Robert Gleason

  “Any luck?” Elena asked.

  “Yeah, all of it bad,” Andre said.

  “Meaning, he found it,” Adara said.

  “C’est tres vraiè,” Andre agreed, smiling. That’s very true.

  “Viva le Morte [Long live death],” Elena said, honoring Andre’s years in the French Foreign Legion.

  “Viva le Guerre [Long live war],” Adara said.

  “Viva Le Legionnaire [Long live the legionary],” Andre said, finishing the ancient toast and his cognac.

  “You still enjoy an occasional brandy?” Elena asked Andre cheerfully.

  Andre was a notoriously heavy drinker.

  “Toujours,” he said.

  “In this line of work,” Stevie said, “you never turn down a drink or a bathroom, a meal or a piece of ass.” A former IRA gunrunner with a short blond beard, he wore a black cable-knit seaman’s sweater and a black watch cap.

  “You never know when it’s your last,” Elena agreed, nodding and smiling.

  Another man entered the room.

  “What’s this?” he asked. He was young, wearing a white shirt, dark blue suit, a striped tie and was looking for another party.

  “Slide rule club,” Stevie said.

  “They have calculators now,” the man pointed out.

  “Same thing,” Stevie said.

  Noting the Colt .45 in Andre’s fist, the man quickly turned and left, closing the door behind him.

  “I thought you were dead,” Elena said to the person sitting next to Stevie.

  “I thought that too,” Leon said, “for a while.”

  A short stocky man in a black Van Morrison T-shirt, Leon had a heavy overarching brow, dark hair and a carelessly trimmed beard. A deep jagged knife scar diagonally traversed his right cheek, and his long arms hung almost to his knees. When he walked, it was with a hint of a stoop, so everyone naturally called him Ape. But never to his face.

  “Does anyone want to tell us why we’re here?” Stevie asked.

  “Besides ‘Auld Lang Syne,’” Andre said.

  “We’re harrowing hell for a lost soul,” Elena said, “and we need some help.”

  “Where’s hell this time?” Stevie asked.

  “The Pakistan–Afghan border country,” Adara added.

  “And we look like the SEAL Team Six?” Stevie asked.

  “Seriously, we need to liberate a man from prison.” Adara said.

  “I spent too much time working them Abu Ghraib death cages,” Leon said, shaking his head. “That’s as close to a jail as I want to get ever again.”

  “That be a lock,” Jonesy said, “and right now I don’t feel like doin’ nothin’ sketchy.”

  “Last time I was in Pakistan,” Stevie said, “the TTP kicked my butt till I almost choked to death on my colon. I’m not real eager to return.”

  “I wouldn’t go back into Pakistan if I was free as a bird,” Jonesy agreed.

  “The pay will be proportional to the risk,” Jamie said.

  “Very proportional,” Adara added.

  “Up-front proportional,” Elena said.

  “All of it up-front proportional,” Jamie said.

  “The money would have to be very up-front proportional,” Stevie said.

  “The moment we take off, it has to be in my account,” Andre said.

  “The money’s real as steel,” Elena said. “We got us a bank.”

  “A billionaire bank,” Adara said.

  All their eyes turned to Jamie.

  “You backin’ this?” Jonesy asked.

  Jamie nodded.

  “Jamie’s in on this,” Stevie said, “it’s real.”

  “And if Jamie’s here,” Jonesy said, “it’s gotta be important. Jamie, you sure ain’t in it for the money.”

  The men all nodded their agreement.

  Another black merc, this one in an ebony turtleneck and a matching beret, entered the room. He shut the door behind him. Elena made him for at least six four, and he was built like a pro tackle. She knew him as Henry, and he was the second man who did not have a beard.

  “And I definitely gotta git some flex,” Henry said.

  “It’s cool,” Jonesy said.

  “Way past cool,” Leon said.

  The door opened right behind Henry, and the owner, Maurice, entered. He had red hair, an auburn beard and a fat belly. His pale chubby cheeks sported vividly purple grog blossoms. He cooked as well as supervised the help, and he wore an apron over a white kitchen uniform.

  “We got us a problem,” he said to Adara. “A couple of boys from the Or-gan-i-za-tion”—he pronounced it with a long i—“are beating the fockin’ piss out of some boyo downstairs. I asked them to take it outside but they refused. They look like they might kill him, and I can’t have no dyin’ in my es-tab-lish-ment. I live in Belfast, if you know what I mean, but I also can’t go up against the Or-gan-i-za-tion, no way, no how. But you’ll be flyin’ out pretty soon, right? And you don’t live here.”

  “Want us to handle it?” Adara asked.

  “I’d be in your debt,” Maurice said, “but they be hard-looking lads—and there’s five of them.”

  “No problem,” Elena said.

  “This won’t take long,” Adara said to the men with her.

  ”I assumed the men would handle it,” Maurice said. “Jamie, won’t you help out?”

  “I don’t fight with children,” Jamie said, helping himself to a glass of Andre’s Hennessey.

  “Stevie?” Maurice asked.

  “Wouldn’t dirty me hands on them IRA bitches,” Stevie said with a sly smile.

  “We might off the muthafuckas,” Jonesy explained, “and you said you don’t want no one dyin’ here.”

  “You wouldn’t want that, would you?” Leon asked with a gruesome grin.

  “Can you two really handle them?” Maurice said to the two women. “They’re big men, hard men.”

  “Don’t worry,” Adara said. “We won’t hurt them too badly.”

  “We’ll reason with them,” Elena said.

  “Then we’ll tuck them in for the night,” Adara said.

  “I think he’s afraid you’ll injure some of his repeat business,” Stevie said.

  “In that case,” Elena said, “we won’t hit them in their mouths.”

  “We know they need their mouths to drink,” Adara said.

  “But them buckos kneecap men for a livin’,” Maurice said. “They’re … hard hitters.”

  The two women got up from the table. They walked up to the door, and Adara slapped Maurice on the back.

  “Never fear,” Adara said. “We’ll just kiss them good night for you.”

  Adara and Elena left the room.

  “Want to go out on the balcony and watch?” Davey asked.

  “Why not?” Stevie said.

  The ten men rose and followed the two women out of the room. Taking their drinks to the balcony rail, they watched the women walk down the stairs and out onto the pub floor.

  3

  Oh no, Brenda thought. Putilov’s on board. Conley’s in for it now.

  Tower sat in his Plaza Hotel offices on 5th Avenue and 59th Street. He stared at his sister, Brenda.

  “Who the fuck booked that FBI asshole, Conley?”

  “Your chief of staff, just before he quit and went to work for that Wall Street hedge fund guy, Benjamin Jowett. You know, the guy who pioneered ‘famine derivatives.’”

  “Yeah, I know the guy. He’s a big contributor. But I said before I was never to be in the same room alone with Conley. Those were standing orders. He creeps me out.”

  “Understood,” Brenda said. “On the other hand, you wouldn’t be president if it hadn’t been for Conley and Putilov. In fact, you’d be locked up if it wasn’t for Conley. That man risked life in prison without hope of parole to make you president. Conley committed treason for you.”

  “So?”

  “Jim, he also used to run the FBI—before you fucking fired him. He knows everything
you’ve done wrong in your life since the first time you cheated at jacks. If he turned on you, he could make trouble for you.”

  “Yeah,” Tower said, “and Putie and I could make trouble for him—big trouble.”

  Brenda sighed deeply in frustration. “But why should you? Just admit it. You owe him. It wouldn’t hurt you to throw him a bone and get him off your back. He helped you out of two very big messes.”

  “That was then, this is now. What is he doing for me now?”

  “You can’t not see him. He’s one guy you can’t afford to piss off. He has too much on you and let me repeat … he used to run the FBI.”

  Tower stared at his sister a long hard minute. “Okay. Send the asshole in.”

  Brenda punched the intercom and said:

  “Send former director Conley in.”

  The door swung open and Conley walked in.

  “Glad to see you, Mr. President,” Conley said.

  “You too, Jonathan. Hope you didn’t wait too long. My door is always open to you. Mi casa, su casa. You know that. Coffee, a beer, a real drink?”

  “I’m fine, Mr. President.”

  “That’s great, Jon. I am a little rushed though, as Brenda explained to you, so can we get right to it? You can speak in front of Brenda. I tell her everything.”

  “Mr. President, unfortunately we do have a few problems to sort out, and there’s not a lot of time.”

  “Which is why you’re here,” Tower said. “Let’s get it fixed. Anything you want.”

  “To be frank, promises were made to me—by you and our mutual friend.”

  “Mutual friend? Could you refresh my memory?”

  “You and Mikhail promised me that if I helped you two out of your legal problems, you’d launch me on my political career. Hank Pierson is retiring from his Senate seat at the end of the year. I’m also from Texas, and you said you’d see the Texas governor appointed me to Pierson’s Senate seat. You then said that—when you make your reelection bid in two years—you’d make me your running mate. I want on the ticket.”

  “Must be old age, Jon. My memory’s pretty fuzzy anymore. I honestly don’t recall that conversation. Anyway, that Texas governor, Bryan Bunson, has a mind of his own. I can’t order him around like he was a little kid. As for the VP spot, the Republican Convention has to ratify that, and I’m under a lot of pressure to nominate a sitting, Southern governor, maybe Will Parsons from Mississippi.”

  “And I’ve got a small army of Democratic senators and that special prosecutor, Ben Miller, a former FBI director himself, pressuring me to testify against you and Putilov for rigging that last election. They want you imprisoned for treason, and they’ve offered me immunity in exchange for my turning state’s evidence. Get the picture, Jim? Anything you don’t understand?”

  So there it was. Tower stared at Conley a long hard minute.

  “Jon, you make an excellent point. Truth is I never liked that redneck, Ole Miss cocksucker, Parsons, and I always liked you. And as Brenda was just reminding me, Putilov and I owe you—big-time. You’d make a superlative Texas senator and a spectacular VP. Let me make a few phone calls. I promise I’ll get on that right now. In the meantime, let Brenda walk you to the door. I am busy, but you have my word that I will make those phone calls before you leave this building.”

  Brenda rose and walked Conley to the door. When she returned, her brother was already on the phone.

  “Mikhail, thank you so much for picking up.… Yes, this one is a Code Red Emergency. We have a serious problem with that moron Conley. He’s threatening to testify against us at those Senate hearings looking into the last presidential election, including your involvement in it. You remember? The Democrats want to prove we committed voter fraud? I don’t think we can bullshit Conley any longer. He’s madder than a hornet.… Really? You have a man that you’re sending to help us out with those other problems? You say he’s got a very reliable female operative he could hand this assignment off to, and that he’s in New York right now? And you say she’s truly terrifying, that she even scares … you? Wow! She must be frightening as hell! I’m personally afraid of her already … Yes, I can delay Conley and keep him in New York for the night. Excellent—and thank you for moving so quickly on this problem. I knew I could depend on you. Mikhail, I can’t thank you enough … Yes, same to you. You take care as well. Farewell, old friend.”

  He looked up at his sister and smiled.

  Oh no, Brenda thought. Putilov’s on board. Conley’s in for it now.

  4

  “Oh, Tariq’ll turn you into a prom queen, if we let him.”

  —Raza Jabarti

  When McMahon came to, he was again belly-down on his rack. Glancing around the room, he saw a chain saw resting on a wooden chair over in the corner.

  A wave of horror swept through him.

  God no, not a chain saw!

  Looking over his shoulder, he saw Raza was still in the short red dress and rowelled riding boots. She was rubbing some kind of medicated ointment on his butt, which he could now see. He was sorry he could. To his eternal horror, it was a dense labyrinth of crimson welts. Every square inch of his body hurt hideously, especially his rear end, but the cooling balm felt like heaven.

  He almost sobbed with relief.

  And tried not to look at the chain saw.

  “Feel better?” Raza asked, sounding strangely sympathetic. “Marika really let you have it, didn’t she? Was she retaliating for something you did to her in New York? What went on in that hotel room anyway? You didn’t take advantage of my friend, did you?”

  “Never.”

  “What did you two do then?”

  “We blessed the Prophet, read his holy Koran and prayed for world peace.”

  “You did not corrupt her pristine innocence, did you?” Raza asked, smiling.

  “Not unless counting prayer beads and repeating Allah’s ninety-nine names over and over again constitutes corruption.”

  “I’ll bet that’s all you did,” Raza said, clearly dubious but still smiling, still amused. She then returned to rubbing the soothing ointment into his tortured backside. “There, does that feel better, Mr. Danny ‘Allah Has Ninety-Nine Names’ McMahon?”

  “I think I’m in love,” McMahon said in a half whisper.

  “You may be feeling many things,” Raza said, “but love isn’t one of them.”

  “A man stretched on a rack will say anything to get in our good graces,” Marika said, entering the room.

  “If not love, what do you think he’s feeling?” Raza asked.

  “Sadoerotic possession,” Marika said.

  “Agreed,” Raza said. “Why should we believe anything you say, Mr. McMahon?”

  “Because my word is backed by my full faith and credit,” McMahon explained, nodding sincerely.

  “Marika, I think Mr. McMahon was making a joke,” Raza said. “Do you think Mr. McMahon is poking fun at us?”

  “Yes,” Marika said, “and guess what? We have a few jokes too. Let’s see how he likes our brand of humor.”

  The chain saw was sitting on a straight-back corner chair. Marika picked it up, pulled the cord, and it came to life, wailing like a scalded cat. Marika then took the chain saw to the wooden chair, cutting it up into dozens of detonating fragments. She walked up to McMahon and stuck the screaming blade between McMahon’s legs, less than a foot from his crotch, edging it closer, closer, her eyes locked on McMahon’s the whole time, utterly oblivious to the screeching, yowling blade now barely a quarter inch from his genitals.

  “Why are you doing this?” McMahon shouted, hysterical with terror.

  “Because you’re a narcissistic bastard,” Raza explained, “who hates everything he doesn’t understand, who’s utterly ignorant of our world.”

  “Who’s out of touch with life,” Marika said.

  “And who can’t accept the natural order of things,” Raza threw in.

  “So we’re here to teach you a lesson, to shake you up, to wak
e you up,” Marika said, “and to show you the way things are.”

  McMahon’s eyes had rolled back into his head until only the whites showed. He was mouthing mute prayers.

  “But you won’t listen,” Raza said. “Instead you attack us and defame our faith, our culture, even though you know nothing about us.”

  “Do you know anything about our world?” Marika asked. “Do you have any idea what it means to be an Arab … man?”

  Joke with them, Rashid had said. Try to make them laugh … Don’t show fear.

  “I heard it has something to do with schtupping goats?” McMahon asked in a trembling voice.

  “Is that supposed to be funny?” Raza asked.

  “Actually, yes.”

  However, when he met her gaze, Raza wasn’t laughing. She was glaring at him, her eyes empty and expressionless, the unnerving stare of a malevolent Mona Lisa.

  McMahon instinctively looked away. Unfortunately, he was looking at Tariq, who stood in the corner by the worktable. He had taken a break from torturing Rashid to spend some time in McMahon’s torture chamber. Once again Tariq was sharpening his scalpel.

  Marika was standing near him, so McMahon asked her in a low voice:

  “What’s Tariq’s problem?” McMahon asked.

  “Tariq suffers from a psychopathic-paranoid-schizoid personality disorder,” Marika half whispered back, “compounded by visual and auditory hallucinations, aggravated by a severe necrophilic-castration complex.”

  “Can you give it to me without the scientific jargon?” McMahon asked.

  “He’s stone-fucking-crazy-violent-nuts,” Marika said.

  “He also hates me,” McMahon said, nodding glumly.

  “Oh, Tariq’ll turn you into a prom queen, if we let him,” Raza said.

  “Suppose I did convert to Islam,” McMahon said, starting to panic. “Sincerely, with all my heart?”

  “Do you know anything about our faith?” Marika asked, astonished. “Do you have any idea what makes one a good Muslim?”

  Try to make them laugh, Rashid had told him the night before. Raza said she has your DVDs and thinks you’re funny.

  “Eating fifty falafels?” McMahon asked.

  “I say we turn him over to Tariq,” Marika said, “so his genes won’t be passed on to future generations.”