Coup d’État

by Ben Coes

  The rider paused and looked around. Low hills covered in grass, stub wheat, and cypress. Empty vistas of blue sky. Untouched ranch land in every direction. A barbed-wire fence running north in a rickety line as far as he could see.

  The afternoon sun blazed down dry but viciously hot. The man’s shirt was off and a day’s worth of dirt was layered on top of a rich brown tan. Thick muscles covered the man’s chest, torso, back, and arms. On his right bicep, a small tattoo was hard to see beneath the dark tan; a lightning bolt no bigger than a dime, cut in black ink. But what stood out the most was a jagged scar on the man’s left shoulder. It ran in a crimson ribbon down the shoulder blade and stuck out like a sore thumb. Most of the other ranch hands suspected it was a knife wound but no one knew for sure.

  The terrain was empty and lifeless for as far as the eye could see. A few large, bulbous clouds sat lazily to the west, just seeming to rest off to the side of the light blue sky. It was almost silent, with only the occasional exhale from Deravelle, or a light whistle from time to time as a slow wind brushed across the dirt veneer of the plain.

  Sembler was the largest cattle ranch—or “station” as they were referred to in Australia—in Queensland. More than 18,000 head. Out here, however, in the northwest quadrant of the 12,675-acre ranch, the rider couldn’t see a single head. On hot days like today, the cattle stayed south, near King River, at the southern edge of Joe Sembler’s property.

  Dewey glanced down at the last post of the day. It was almost seven o’clock. He sat up in the saddle, lifted his hat, and ran his hand back through his hair. It had grown long now, having not been cut in the year since he’d arrived in Australia. He reached down and took a beer from the saddlebag. Cooler than one might’ve supposed, the thick leather insulating the bottle from the scorching heat. He guzzled it down without removing the bottle from his lips. He put the empty back in the saddlebag.

  When Dewey first arrived at Sembler Station, the temperature would sometimes reach a hundred and ten degrees. Some days he thought he wasn’t going to survive the heat. But he did. Then fall and winter came and the weather became idyllic in Cooktown, temperatures in the sixties, cool nights. In winter, green and yellow grass carpeted the land for as far as you could see.

  When Dewey’s second summer rolled around, he once again feared he wouldn’t survive the heat. But now, as he felt the power of the tropical sun on his back, felt the first warmth of the beer, as he appreciated the utter solitude of a place where he didn’t have to see another human being for hours on end, he realized he was starting to like the Australian summers.

  Dewey reached into the saddlebag, took out a second beer, and took a sip. For the first time in a long time, he let thoughts of the past come into his head. He glanced down at his scar. After more than a year, he was used to it by now. It was part of him. When the other ranchers asked about the scar, Dewey didn’t answer. What would they think if he told them the truth? That he got it from a Kevlar-tipped 7.62mm slug from a Kalashnikov, fired by a terrorist sent to Cali to terminate him? How, in a shabby motel bathroom, he’d cut back the skin with a Gerber combat knife, then reached into the wound with his own fingers and pulled the bullet out? How he’d sutured the cut with a needle and thread from a traveling salesman’s sewing kit, then turned, Colt .45 caliber handgun cocked to fire, as a terrorist kicked the door in, machine gun in hand?

  Who would believe that this quiet American with the long hair and the jagged scar had been, at one time, a soldier? That he’d been First Special Forces Operational Detachment—Delta. That he loved the feeling that came next that day in that Cali motel room, the feeling he got as he fired his .45 and blew the back of the terrorist’s skull across the motel room wall.

  He remembered the look of fear on the terrorist’s face as he kicked the door open only to find Dewey standing in front of him, weapon in hand, aimed at his skull. It was a look of pure terror. It was a look of realization—realization that there would be no way for him to sweep the UZI across the air in time.

  Dewey could have gunned him down that very second, but he waited one extra moment to let him experience the awful knowledge that he had lost and was about to die.

  Those were the memories that formed like crystals in Dewey’s mind, which opened a flood of emotion. These were the memories he ran to Australia to erase. It was hard to believe it had been a whole year. His life was monotony now. Riding the line. Sleeping, eating, drinking, riding the line. But he needed monotony to remove the memory of being hunted.

  Slowly, Dewey closed his eyes, let the silence wash over him, the smell of soil and horse, the sounds of nothing. He thought about Maine. Summers in Castine, working on his father’s farm. There, it had been his job to walk down row after monotonous row of tomato stalks, a pair of clippers in his hand, cutting off any brown or yellow leafing. So many rows, so many hours of endless walking those summers. Then it had been the thought of the ocean that always got him through. That at the end of the day, he would race his brother Jack from the farm, down Wadsworth Cove Road for a mile and a half, through town to the dock, where they would jump into the cold water and wash off a day’s worth of sweat before heading home for supper.

  He took a few more sips from the beer, reached forward, and rubbed the soft, wet neck of the black stallion.

  “There we go, Deravelle. Almost time.”

  Deravelle turned his head to the left. Dewey followed the stallion’s sight line.

  In the distance, across the barbed-wire fence, the land spread out flat. He watched the land as far as he could see, but saw nothing. He tucked the empty beer bottle back in the saddlebag and prepared to head back to the stables. He looked back one last time and in the far-off distance, he saw movement. He waited and watched. A cloud of dust was the first thing he could see for sure, followed, a few minutes later, by the outline of a horse galloping toward him.

  Deravelle perked up, lightly kicking the ground, but Dewey calmed him with a strong pat on the shoulder. The horse was running at a full gallop across the plain and, as it came closer, Dewey saw it was a mostly white horse; judging from its slender size a mare, with speckles of black and an empty saddle across her back.

  He climbed down and stepped through the barbed-wire fence. He walked toward the rapidly approaching horse. He held his hands up, waving them, so the horse wouldn’t run into the barbed-wire fence.

  “Whoa there!” Dewey yelled as the horse approached.

  She approached directly toward him, stopping just feet in front of him. She was a muscular horse, a jumper with a white face and black spots across her coat. She stepped trustingly toward Dewey. He raised his hands at the horse then took the reins, which were dangling from the horse’s neck, securing her.

  “Hey, pretty girl. It’s all right. Calm down.”

  He let the horse smell his hand then ran his right hand along the under part of the horse’s neck. It was warm and sopping with sweat.

  “You’re a beauty. Now what are you doing way the hell out here?”

  He inspected the saddle. It was slightly worn, with a single, scuffed brass “H” affixed to the front. Beneath the back edge, HERMÈS—PARIS was branded into the leather.

  Deravelle stood at the fence. Behind him, the sky was turning gray as nightfall approached.

  The horse likely belonged to someone at the neighboring station, Chasvur. Perhaps she’d run away or else taken off during a ride, and someone, somewhere was walking around without a horse.

  He patted the pretty horse. It wasn’t a ranch hand’s ride, that was clear. The saddle alone told you that. So did the horse; she was expensive-looking. None of the typical scars, scuff marks, scratches, or wear and tear from working. This was a leisure horse; a woman’s horse.

  Dewey took a pair of wire cutters from his belt and cut the wire near the post, then wrapped the loose wire around the post. Dewey pulled the mare through the cut in the fence line, over the low wire. Holding the mare’s reins, he climbed back on top of Deravelle.


  Dewey glanced at his watch: 7:35 P.M. To the east, the sky was turning into a purplish shade of black. Night was coming. If someone had fallen off the mare, or had been left behind on a ride, there wouldn’t be enough time to ride back to Sembler and notify Chasvur. Whoever was out there would have to spend the night in the outdoors.

  For Dewey, a night out in the middle of the Queensland nowhere wouldn’t be a big deal. For someone else, it might. Especially a woman, or, God forbid, a girl. Besides, what if she was hurt? What if the mare had pulled up and the rider had been thrown off the saddle?

  Behind him, a low grumble vibrated somewhere in the sky; distant thunder. Turning his head, Dewey realized that what he had thought was the night sky was much more than that. A black shroud of storm clouds intermingled with the coming night.

  He smiled, and casually shook his head back and forth.

  “This could get interesting.” He looked at Deravelle, then the other horse, as if they could understand him. Dewey found his shirt in the saddlebag and pulled it over his head.

  He gently kicked Deravelle’s side and the horse stepped across the low wire, followed by the mare. Soon, they were trotting toward the west, tracking the path of crushed wild grass left earlier by the mare, illuminated by the last remaining light of the setting sun, trying to find whoever was out there before the black storm clouds opened up around them.

  When the first drop of rain fell from the sky onto Dewey’s left arm, he smiled the way only a former Delta—or an adventurous farmboy from Castine, Maine—could.

  “You two don’t mind getting a little wet, do you?”

  3

  IMAM KHOMEINI INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

  TEHRAN

  The white Maybach Landaulet sped along the sun-beaten tarmac at Tehran’s Khomeini Airport, breezing behind a long line of parked commercial airliners.

  In one respect, the sight of the luxury car was incongruous. A gleaming white million-dollar limousine in a place where the only other vehicles were catering trucks, airport operations vehicles, fuel trucks, baggage dollies, military vehicles, and the occasional police car. Yet there it was, moving along untouched, airport security having already received the orders that the limousine was not to be stopped or disturbed during the three days it was in Tehran.

  The back compartment of the Maybach was open to the sky. Aswan Fortuna’s shoulder-length black and gray hair was tousled by the wind. Despite his seventy-five years of age, Fortuna seemed young. With chiseled features, he looked like an aging movie star, and his expensive clothing and dark Tom Ford sunglasses would be more appropriate in Cannes than Tehran. Seated next to him was a stunning beauty in a sleeveless baby blue sundress. Candela was only twenty-three years old and she looked like a model. Her jet-black hair framed a pair of expensive Prada sunglasses that were wrapped perfectly across her light brown skin.

  The limo pulled into a long, private hangar across from the main terminal, separated by a half mile of tarmac, and stopped in front of a shining silver Gulfstream G500. Aswan and Candela climbed out of the Maybach and ascended the Gulfstream’s stairs.

  Inside, the plane looked like a low-ceilinged suite at the Four Seasons; big white leather captain’s chairs, a large plasma screen on the back wall, a pair of long, red leather sofas, custom-built into the contours of the jet. In the back was a small mahogany doorway, behind it a well-appointed kitchen, then a stateroom with its own bathroom, including a shower.

  “Hello, ladies and gentlemen.”

  The words were spoken by a man sitting peacefully on one of the red leather sofas, dressed in a gray suit, mustached, a block of black hair cut like a bowl on his oversized head. He was overweight and his body pushed against the suit’s material, which was too small by at least two sizes. Khalid el-Jaqonda did not look like he belonged on the $75 million airplane.

  “Aswan,” said el-Jaqonda, rising and stepping toward him with his hand outstretched.

  “Thank you for coming,” said Fortuna, shaking el-Jaqonda’s hand.

  “Of course,” said el-Jaqonda, laughing heartily. “When you say jump, Aswan, I say, ‘How high?’”

  “I know the summit isn’t over,” said Fortuna, “but I need to talk to you about something before we return to Broumana.”

  “Miss Candela,” said el-Jaqonda, “I trust you enjoyed your visit?”

  Candela smiled. “If I never come back to Tehran, it will be too soon.”

  “Give us a minute, will you?” Fortuna said to Candela.

  “Of course,” she said. She opened the dark mahogany door at the back of the private jet, then disappeared.

  Fortuna sat down on the leather sofa across from el-Jaqonda.

  “Sit down, Khalid. Would you like something to drink?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “When will you return to Islamabad?”

  “Tomorrow. President Iqbar is hosting a dinner tonight at Sa’dabad Palace for the entire Pakistani delegation.”

  “Of the two leaders, I found President El-Khayab to be far sharper and more articulate than President Iqbar,” said Fortuna. “You were right to encourage El-Khayab’s candidacy.”

  “He would not be president of Pakistan without your financial support,” said el-Jaqonda.

  “I hope it was money well spent.”

  “You hope? What do you mean?”

  “That is what I want to talk to you about.”

  “Were you not impressed by the meetings with the two leaders, Aswan? I worked very hard to set these up.”

  “I found the president of Iran to be an idiot,” said Fortuna. “Always joking around. Does he not realize the historic opportunity that lies before us? For the first time, we have Islamists at the helm of two of the largest nations in the Middle East. One has oil, the other nuclear weapons. There should be nothing that stops us now. Yet both of them are doing nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Iqbar is content to crack jokes,” said Fortuna. “At dinner last night he told joke after joke, none of them funny.”

  “I know President Iqbar,” said el-Jaqonda. “I assure you he’s as serious about spreading Islam as Omar El-Khayab.”

  “So what?” said Fortuna. “El-Khayab seems happy to do nothing. Since his election there has been nothing but talk. If there’s one lesson from the past two decades, it’s that Islam is borne on a river of jihad. Violence is a necessary means to the end. Yet not once in the two days of meetings did I hear any discussion of activities intended to destroy Israel and America. What about India, Khalid? Your hated neighbors, the Hindu? Not once did Omar El-Khayab or Mahmoud Iqbar, or any of their ministers, mention the importance of eliminating our enemies. What was it all for?”

  “Iran and Pakistan pledged funding to send Lashkar-e-Taiba into India.”

  “Blowing up some buildings in New Delhi?” asked Fortuna derisively. “Is that all we aspire to? We have two elected presidents of major countries! And yet all we aspire to is blowing up some buildings and maybe some trains in Mumbai? I feel as if I’ve wasted my money.”

  “It wasn’t a waste, Aswan.”

  “Why did I spend twenty-five million dollars helping elect Omar El-Khayab if all he’s going to do is sit there, living peacefully, not making waves? It’s time to attack, Khalid! It’s time to use some of the weapons we’ve earned the right to use!”

  “All in good time,” said el-Jaqonda. “El-Khayab has only been president for a year. Besides, despite the precautions of the Iranian security people, we have to assume we were being listened to. We have to be careful what we say, even perhaps here.” El-Jaqonda glanced around the cabin of the jet.

  “Not here,” said Fortuna, shaking his head. “State of the art. We can’t be heard inside this cabin.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “I’m getting old, Khalid,” said Fortuna, reclining on the sofa. “Last week, I turned seventy-five. I’ve given a son’s life to jihad. The Fortuna family has invested literally hundreds of millions of dollars toward the down
fall of the United States and the West. Why am I the only one who seems impatient to take this battle to the next level?”

  “And what would you have us do?” asked el-Jaqonda.

  “Fight!” yelled Fortuna, slapping his fist on the arm of the sofa. “Drop one of the hundred-plus nuclear weapons in Pakistan’s arsenal on someone—on Israel or India—or at the very least give one to someone who is willing to make use of it.”

  “I’m sorry you’re disappointed,” said el-Jaqonda. “It takes time. Trust me when I tell you that President El-Khayab is as committed as you are to the destruction of our enemies. Just this morning, Pakistan agreed to sell Tehran five thousand centrifuges.”

  “Centrifuges, so what. Why not simply give Iran a dozen or two devices?”

  “Omar El-Khayab is not a terrorist, and if that’s what you thought you were getting, you were mistaken. What he is, Aswan, is an Islamist willing to use violence to spread the word of Allah. That’s different than being a terrorist. I believe it’s a hundred times more powerful. He has the people of Pakistan behind him. He’s not some sort of maniac sending suicide bombers into pizza parlors in Jerusalem. El-Khayab is the real deal. I’ve heard him preach. I’ve never seen someone able to stir such emotion in people.”

  “But is he a fighter?” asked Fortuna.

  “El-Khayab believes in the Ummah. That someday the world will be divided between China and Islam, and that Islam will eventually triumph under a caliphate. Give us time. It’s a chess game. The opportunity will come.”

  “You must create the opportunity,” said Fortuna. “You and Osama Khan must create the opportunity. Then, you must convince El-Khayab.”

  El-Jaqonda smiled, then stood up.

  “You have given me this opportunity,” said el-Jaqonda. “You pressured Khan to make me his deputy and I will not forget it. I will not disappoint you, Aswan. I thought that including you in the summit meetings would make you happy.”