by C. G. Cooper
Cal watched him go. There weren’t many as good as Dr. Higgins. The only reason he’d agreed to the Higgins’s Ebola idea was that Saladin’s moles were watching his back. Kadar had guaranteed the good doctor’s safety, swearing on the life of his eldest son that no harm would come to Higgins.
It had given them the time and access they needed. Neil’s software had churned through the reams of information, and assets had already been activated by Kingsley Coles to neutralize the threats they’d found.
They were on to the next phase of their plan. The outcome was less certain. It all depended on the actions of two men. Two men who were most likely meeting at that very moment.
Chapter 35
Presidential Palace
Kabul, Afghanistan
12:17pm AFT, September 27th
Days stretched into weeks as the contentious Afghan elections dragged on. Almost a month after the Ebola scare, all seemed to be decided. Despite his previous promise, the outgoing President of Afghanistan remained. He was the guiding hand who finally helped to bring the two presidential candidates together in compromise.
One would become the new president, while the other would be appointed the first chief executive of Afghanistan, sort of a prime ministerial role. Afghans rejoiced at the compromise, its new leadership cemented for the foreseeable future.
And so came the day for the old president to address his government, to say farewell to those he’d fought with during the last thirteen years. They’d formed a government together. They’d written a constitution together. It was never perfect, but they somehow made it work.
He stood before them on his last day to say goodbye. They looked up at him expectantly.
“Fellow Afghans, I stand before you as a man changed. Thirteen years ago we never could have imagined how far we might come. But look at us. Despite our differences, we have worked together, forged a new peace. Although the way is still clouded, and violence still looms, I am happy that we have done our part to secure the future for our children.”
He went on to tell them about his fondest memories and their hardest fought victories. The time when he’d been attacked and his political opposition stood as a human shield to protect him from his aggressors. He talked of hospitals built and the education now spreading to the most remote villages. He thanked foreign allies who had helped to rid Afghanistan of the Taliban and foreign fighters. The United States was not mentioned.
Then his eyes went hard. He looked out at the crowd, taking his time to meet their gaze.
“But we must continue to be vigilant. There are those who think we are a weak country, who believe that they can manipulate our people for their own gain. The war in Afghanistan serves to benefit foreign powers. I would urge our leaders to continue questioning their motives. If peace was indeed what they intended, the United States could help us make peace.”
+++
5:10pm
Andy read the transcript of the farewell speech for the second time.
“This guy doesn’t know when to quit,” he said.
“You think he’d be happy with the money,” said Cal, sipping from a frosted bottle of beer.
“Yeah.” Andy read the speech for a third time. He knew it was a calculated move. The guy was smart. He didn’t say or do anything without a plan. They’d learned that and more from their infiltration and subsequent monitoring. From their near month-long surveillance they’d learned almost too much about the now former president. What he liked to eat. His bathroom habits. And his surreptitious business dealings.
The breadth of the man’s plans were staggering. He had clients begging for help. Many he’d turned away. The speech would serve to bolster his image with those men.
But luck was on their side. As the Afghan presidential campaign dragged on, so too did their time. Only the day before Neil had cracked the final bank account in Bermuda.
Now they had names, transcripts, files, and accounts. There was only one thing left to do until they could pull the trigger.
“You sure you feel up for this?” asked Cal.
Andy cracked his neck from side to side. It had taken him longer to get back to peak form than he’d hoped. The extra time had helped. He would’ve hated to miss this part of the show.
“Yeah. Let’s go.”
Chapter 36
Kabul Serena Hotel
Kabul, Afghanistan
8:44am AFT, September 28th
He’d stayed up late watching the news reports from around the world. Of course the West wasn’t happy. But that was fine. He didn’t need them anymore.
More importantly, half of his new clients had either called or texted with their congratulations. They’d enjoyed the last minute jab against America and its allies.
It was the first day of the rest of his life, the first day in ages that he’d allowed himself to sleep in. For the past thirteen years, he’d been a slave to his schedule. No longer. He would come and go as he pleased.
The former President of Afghanistan padded to the kitchen in search of tea and a light breakfast. There were no staff on duty so he’d have to make it himself. He wanted it that way at least for a week. Privacy. He’d relished it.
Security was a necessary function, but they knew how to be invisible. That was only partly true. His favorite departure gift had come from an admirer who also happened to be a potential client in his new venture.
Much to his surprise, a distant descendant of Shaka Zulu sent him a six-man security contingent. They were huge and wonderfully black. True to custom, they wore traditional Zulu garb, including wicked spears and loin cloths, and stuck to a strict code of silence. The hopeful heir of the Zulu Kingdom (which was now part of the Republic of South Africa) mailed a note along with his “gift” explaining that he should consider the warriors his own, to do with as he pleased. They would fight to the death and never utter a word. Slaves in every sense of the word.
The former president smiled as he passed one enormously chiseled specimen and entered the eating area. They’d been with him for almost a month and he found that their presence comforted him. Oh, and the looks on the faces of his visitors! He would enjoy traveling with them, watching as those passing by stared up in wonder at the magnificent specimens.
A phone rang in the living room. The retired politician almost called for his secretary but then remembered that, for the moment, he was alone with his black sentinels. He set a teapot to boil and walked to the other room, annoyed that he had to go that far. The phone continued to ring.
“Hello?” he said into the phone.
“Mr. President?” came a voice in English.
“Yes. Who is this?”
“This is President Brandon Zimmer.”
For a moment his stomach clenched. What did the American president want with him? Probably something to do with the previous day’s speech. The media was going on and on about how the Americans and their president would react now that the Zimmer Doctrine was in place. But he wasn’t in office anymore. He no longer had any responsibility. His nerves settled as he put on a smile.
“Hello, Mr. President. How are you today?”
“I’m fine thanks. How’s your first day of retirement?”
“I cannot complain. I have to make my own tea, but it that is the price I must pay…” His chuckle was not returned from the American. “Is there something I can help you with, my friend?”
Now Zimmer did laugh. “That’s an odd choice of words coming from you.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Let me explain something to you. You can say anything you want in front of cameras. It doesn’t scare me. But what does bother me, what makes me want to jump through this phone right now, is what you’ve been doing in secret, what you’ve got planned for the future.”
“Now I don’t know what…”
“We know about the money. We know about your new business venture. We know that you killed your own countrymen in order to blame it on us.”
That was
impossible. No one knew everything except him. No. Zimmer must be bluffing.
“I do not know where you’ve gotten your information, but I am afraid you are mistaken.”
“I’ll give you one chance,” said Zimmer, his voice sharp. “Admit what you’ve done and help us, or you’re on your own.”
Was it one of his partners? Anthony Farrago maybe? No. The money was hidden. He’d whet Farrago’s beak with a small taste, but the vast majority could only be accessed by him. Farrago stood to lose an emperor’s ransom should he be taken out of the picture. Still the worry crept into his throat. He had to force it down to answer.
“I suggest you talk to whoever has told you these lies, Mr. President. They have done you a great disservice.”
No response from Zimmer. The seconds ticked by. Finally, Zimmer said, “Very well. I wish you luck.”
The line went dead. He replaced the handset in the cradle and stared at the phone. The nerve of those Americans. They always thought their money and power gave them the upper hand. Well, that would soon change. The Americans were about to have more than they could handle, and he would be the puppetmaster pulling the strings. It would be a welcome change.
His fears lifted, and he remembered his tea just as the sound of the whistling kettle beckoned from the kitchen. He turned to fetch it and almost ran into one of the Zulus who was standing right behind him, muscles glistening.
“Do you need something?” the Afghan asked, immediately remembering that the large black man would not respond. But he did.
“How was your phone call?” the man asked in American accented English.
The former president took a step back. “I…I…”
Faster than he thought possible, the giant grabbed him by the throat and lifted him off his feet. He could feel the swoon, his mind flittering toward unconsciousness. His hands tried to pry the larger man’s hand off, but the anaconda grip did not relent as they moved back until he was pressed against the wall, legs flailing.
He stared at the man’s eyes. They bore into him, not a shred of compassion as the sparkles turned to black spots in his vision.
He wanted to ask questions, bribe the man, anything to keep breathing. But the air never came, only the mounting pressure and fading light.
Just as the last vestiges of clarity slipped from his grasp, he heard the man say, “Semper Fi.” And then the world was gone.
Chapter 37
Alexandria, Virginia
6:28pm, October 5th
Anthony Farrago slipped into the elevator just as it was about to close. He’d checked the day before. No cameras. The building’s community bulletin board said that security was being installed in the coming weeks. Not that he cared, but it was always prudent to be careful.
He got off on the fourth floor, pulling his ball cap lower as he scanned the length of the hallway. All clear. He took his time walking down the stained concrete hall, his footsteps barely making a sound.
The condo development was new, built especially for the twenty- and thirty-somethings who worked in and around D.C. It was only half sold, or so the real estate agent had told him when he’d posed as a buyer the day before.
He mentioned in passing that his friend might live in the building, an old friend from the military. When he said the name, the agent smiled and told him that his friend had actually moved in on the first of the month.
It was good to know that all of his contacts hadn’t been burned. With the disappearance of the former President of Afghanistan, his business partner, along with the billions, Farrago was left with almost nothing. It hadn’t been easy sneaking back into the States.
He’d vanished, severing his ties with the CIA. According to his contacts, they were still looking for him, thinking that he may have been killed with the Afghan president.
Farrago wanted answers, and if anybody would know what had happened, it was the man he was about to visit. He pulled the keycard scrambler from his pocket and flicked the ON switch. When he came to the right door, he pressed the scrambler against the lock and five seconds later the lock disengaged. He eased the door open and stepped inside.
A shower was running. He pulled a blade from a wrist sheath. Guns were too messy. Knives were better for interrogation.
Even though he’d had the place under surveillance, he still moved from room to room making sure the two bedroom condo was empty. No signs of life except for the master bedroom. His target was getting ready for dinner, a fact his surveillance team had picked up earlier.
The water was still running when he slipped into the bedroom. There was a pistol lying on the bedside table on the opposite side of the room. Stupid.
He sidestepped into the walk-in closet as the shower shut off. A moment later, Major Bartholomew Andrews walked out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist.
Farrago made his move, sliding out of the closet and cutting off the Marine’s path to the gun.
“Where’s the money?” he asked.
Maj. Andrews turned. Nothing in his look said that he was surprised by Farrago’s sudden appearance.
“It’s gone.”
Farrago took a step closer and held up the blade in his hand.
“What do you mean it’s gone.”
Andrews shrugged. “We took it.”
This wasn’t how Farrago had imagined the conversation going. Andrews was supposed to be squirming. He was supposed to fight back until the CIA veteran had to tear the information from his chest.
“Let me guess. You’re probably wondering where your partner went, right? The former President of Afghanistan?”
Farrago almost threw the knife at the arrogant upstart. Didn’t he know who he was dealing with?
There were too many questions. He’d had it all worked out. Every contingency planned to the smallest detail. The clients. The money. The overthrow.
“It’s over, Farrago.”
Farrago shook his head. “It’s not over until I say it is.”
“We’ve got the money. We took care of the president. And we took care of your clients. The prince in South Africa. The warlord in Somalia. The general in Ghana. I could keep going, but you know them all. I’ve gotta admit, you guys had a helluva plan. Teach aspiring leaders how to incite revolt and violence in order for America and its allies to come in and dump a boatload of money. Then you show them how to siphon off as much cash as they can and you guys get a hefty cut. If it wasn’t so twisted, I might have been impressed. But it’s over now. The racket is gone along with your friend.”
Nothing made sense. But he still had what really mattered. It was what he’d been trained for, what he’d been bred for. Not by the CIA and its legions of pussy-footing government employees, but by his father, the man whose legacy was alive and well. It was all he’d thought about since joining the Agency. It was now his legacy.
He was going to be to the CIA what Edward Snowden was to the NSA.
“What do you think the world would do if it found out that the CIA, that our country, was handing out money just to get our way?” asked Farrago.
Andrew’s eyes hardened. He didn’t know. Farrago laughed.
“It wasn’t about the money, you know. Sure that would’ve been nice, a good retirement. But I’ve got something much bigger in the works.”
“And what would that be?”
Farrago almost didn’t say, but he wasn’t planning on leaving Andrews alive.
“I’m going to take the CIA down, piece by fucking piece. Do you know how easy it was to give you up to the Afghans? I have no idea how you got out of that, but I know the names and locations of hundreds of agents. Not only that, I also have the documentation that shows how much and which world leaders we’ve bribed over the last twenty years. Under that prick Coles I had access to everything. There will be congressional investigations, pressure from world leaders, implosion. By the time I’m done with it, the CIA is going to sublease its headquarters. And I’ll be sitting on some sunny beach laughing my way to the
next cocktail. I already have four countries bidding for the information.”
“Why’d you do it?” asked Andrews. “For everything they did for you, for your family?”
“For my family?! The CIA hasn’t done anything for my family! They ran my father out. They killed my brother. You tell me exactly how they’ve helped my family.”
“I feel sorry for you.”
“You can go fu— “
The words stuck in his throat. He arched his back at the shooting pain, pressure in his chest, then came the burning and the tearing torment. Farrago tried to turn but he couldn’t, like he was pinned in place. He looked down, his eyes bulging. Five inches of blood-lined metal were sticking out of his chest. He watched as the first drops fell to the floor.
The knife slipped from his hand, clattering to the hardwood floor as his hands grasped for the metal poking out of his shirt. Sharp cold steel, like a sword. The edges cut into his hands, the pain excruciating as he tried in vain to pull it out.
Without warning, the blade slid out of his body, the release turning him weirdly. He spun to face his attacker, blood seeping into his mouth, metallic and warm on his tongue. His knees wanted to buckle, but he willed them to keep standing, wobbling from side to side.
His mouth dropped open when he saw the man holding the blade.
“You!” he wanted to say, but the only thing that came out of his mouth was a gush of blood.
“Your services are no longer required,” said the man, pulling the blade back and then thrusting it into Farrago’s heart.
One beat. Two beats. And then Anthony Farrago collapsed into nothingness.
+++
Andy watched Farrago fall to the floor as the blade slipped out of him.
Kingsley Coles bent down and wiped the long blade on a clean part of Farrago’s shirt. Once satisfied, he slid it into some unseen sheath behind his back. His face looked unconcerned, like he’d just taken out the garbage.