Coup d’État

by Ben Coes

  “Kashmir,” said Khan.

  “To take back that which is ours,” said El-Khayab. “Nothing more, nothing less.”

  “Mr. President,” said Karreff. “If Minister Khan is here, you obviously have a … well, a design.”

  “Yes,” said El-Khayab, pausing. “No population centers. But people must die.”

  “How many, sir?” asked Khan.

  “Thousands.”

  “Ten thousand?”

  “Yes,” said El-Khayab softly. The sound of the crowd seemed to grow louder, and the old cleric turned his head away from his guests, toward the window.

  “Death to India! Death to India! Death to India! Death to India! Death to India!”

  “How many nuclear devices do we have that are fully functional?” asked El-Khayab.

  “One hundred and sixty-one,” said el-Jaqonda. “These are comprised of three primary designs based on kiloton, extensibility, and size.”

  “My suggestion, Mr. President, is the following,” said Khan. “Khalid and I shall work with General Karreff to determine a proper target. We shall then return and report back to you.”

  “That’s not necessary,” said El-Khayab. He removed his glasses. Khan flinched as he looked at what had once been El-Khayab’s eyeballs, now aimed relentlessly at the window. “What value will I add to what is now an operational process? My decision is made. When you are ready, when the time is proper, then strike.”

  “When do you want this to occur, President El-Khayab?” asked Khan.

  “As soon as possible. By the hour, our soldiers die in the hundreds. My hope is that this stops the violence. That the Hindu enemy understands our very real intentions.”

  “I must caution you, sir.” General Karreff cleared his throat. “Please don’t take this as my being in disagreement. But it is my duty to point out the pitfalls, to play a devil’s advocate, so to speak.”

  “Speak, General,” said El-Khayab.

  “The Indian government will almost certainly respond in kind. If we have one hundred and sixty bombs—”

  “Sixty-one,” interrupted el-Jaqonda.

  “Whatever,” said Karreff. “One-sixty, one-sixty-one, two hundred, two thousand, whatever the number. If we have that many, New Delhi has twice or perhaps three times that number. We strike a remote town and kill a few thousand Indians. They strike a less remote town and kill fifty thousand Pakistani. Soon, we are aiming our weapons at Mumbai, New Delhi, Hyderabad, and they are aiming their bombs at Karachi, Peshawar, Lahore, and Islamabad.”

  “That is the risk we take,” said El-Khayab. “There are risks in leadership. Risks in acting, in defending, in living.”

  “We are four days into the war,” said Karreff. “Field Marshal Bolin is hurting the Indians. If land is what we want, we are laying siege to the valleys around Kargil.”

  “And what of Skardu?” asked Khan.

  “We give them Skardu temporarily, as a distraction,” said Karreff. “They are killing themselves trying to push supplies and arms to their new encampment. Meanwhile, we are laying the groundwork for a major acquisition of territory: Kargil, Drass, perhaps even as far west as Srinagar and the Kashmir Valley. We have destroyed three Indian military bases in Jammu. When we want Skardu back, we can take it in hours, not days. Let Bolin have his time. I will gather you Kashmir, Mr. President. With conventional weapons. I truly believe this.”

  There was a pause as El-Khayab rotated in his chair. He sat back, ran his hand across his white beard.

  “He will still have his time,” said El-Khayab. “Plenty of time. Bolin not only will have time, I fully expect him to keep up the current strategy.”

  “If we drop a nuclear bomb on India there is a very real possibility Bolin will be targeted with a retaliatory nuclear strike,” said Karreff. “There’s a possibility that within minutes, New Delhi will drop not one, but five or ten nuclear bombs. And then what? How do we continue to fight a conventional war when all of the sudden it is no longer conventional? When our hills and our cities are not only on fire but are irretrievable, with fallout from the nuclear devices destroying towns that we will never be able to inhabit again?”

  “Spoken with eloquence,” said El-Khayab. “I expect no less from my top military commander. Your candor is refreshing and it is vital to our Pakistani democracy. It is why I selected you over the others, Persom. But the debate is now over. You must design your plan with what you have said; the risks, in mind. What does it mean? Strike hard. Do what is necessary to inhibit their next move.”

  “The Americans will urge India to hold their counterfire,” said Khan. “Where would they get the troops? Iraq? Afghanistan? Be serious. The U.S. is stretched too thin to act as India’s safety net.”

  “That’s an awfully big gamble for us to take,” said Karreff. “We gamble that the U.S. will have the power and influence to stop President Ghandra from retaliating. The Indian president will be under enormous pressure to respond in-kind. Let’s not forget that India has the second largest standing army in the world.”

  “The Americans understand the implications of a retaliatory counterstrike from India,” said Khan. “They will have to prevent it. Otherwise they will soon stand face-to-face with China and the largest standing army in the world.”

  “Yes,” said Karreff, bitterness in his voice. “They will stand face-to-face with China—upon the ashes of our dead soldiers and children.”

  “Remember yourself, ” said Khan.

  “Gentlemen,” said El-Khayab. “Our meeting is complete. I must pray now. Take Srinagar, General Karreff, take whatever is necessary, whatever is possible. I expect nothing less. They expect nothing less.” El-Khayab nodded at the window.

  Karreff stared at the blind man. He looked down at his own hands. The palms shimmered with perspiration.

  “Very well, sir,” said Karreff. “It will be done.”

  13

  88 TWENTY-FOURTH STREET, N.W.

  GEORGETOWN

  The doorbell to Jessica’s town house rang just as she was buttoning her jeans in the bedroom. It had been a long day. A dinner she was supposed to have with her college roommate had to be canceled because of the growing crisis in Kashmir. She ran down the stairs and opened the door. Standing on the front stoop was a man holding a box, Pizzeria Paradiso in cursive on the top.

  “Hi, Sammy.”

  “Hey, Jessica. Eleven-fifty.”

  “Well done?”

  “Of course.”

  “Thanks.” She handed him the money, then closed the door.

  She went into the den and placed the pizza box down on the wooden coffee table in the middle of the room. She put the TV on. She’d Tivo’d her usuals, but instead of watching any of them, she searched through the DVR and purchased Australia. The movie, she knew, had been roundly panned, but she wanted—she needed—to take her mind off of Pakistan and India, if only for a few hours. Plus she knew it would make her think about Dewey. And right now, she was too tired to try and not think about him.

  When she called him at Sembler Station earlier that day, her fingers had trembled as she held the phone. In a way, she’d been relieved he wasn’t there to talk. But now she couldn’t stop thinking about him, knowing he might call her back at any moment.

  Her cell phone rang. On the screen, the words said, “Restricted Caller.”

  Is it him? she thought to herself. She reached for the phone.

  “This is Jessica.”

  “Excuse me for calling so late, Jessica. It’s Karl Chelmsford.”

  Jessica shut her eyes for a brief moment, disappointed.

  “Hi, Karl. What is it? Can it wait until tomorrow?”

  “Actually, no, I don’t think it can. It concerns Pakistan. I didn’t feel comfortable discussing it at the meeting today. I probably have no business saying it, but I need to. It’s not part of the analysis. It reflects my own opinion.”

  “Why didn’t you bring this up at the White House?” asked Jessica, picking up a piece of pizz
a and taking a bite.

  “I’m an academic. I’m not a CIA operative or a military commander. Frankly, I was afraid everyone would think I was crazy.”

  “And you don’t think I will?”

  “No, you might. But I get the feeling that you wouldn’t hold it against me.”

  “All right, you’ve piqued my curiosity. Tell me.”

  “Coup d’état.”

  “Coup d’état? Explain.”

  “I’ve been sitting here in my office at the Pentagon trying to figure out a way this ends peacefully and for the life of me I can’t. El-Khayab is not only not going to back down, he’s probably going to up the stakes. America needs to remove Omar El-Khayab.”

  “There are a lot of people working on Pakistan right now,” said Jessica. “Right this moment. Beijing is even pitching in. On the other side of the conflict, we both know India is eminently more reasonable. They’ll come around.”

  “What did Rajiv Ghandra say to the president when he brought up the cease-fire?” asked Chelmsford.

  “The direct quote was he would never back down. But that doesn’t mean he won’t. We have to keep pushing.”

  Chelmsford was quiet.

  “America has significantly toned down its attempts at regime change,” said Jessica. “We’ve been burnt too many times. When we succeed, the country is tarnished—seen as an American puppet—then we’re blamed. When we fail, we get blamed again. It’s a no-win situation.”

  “I know,” said Chelmsford. “I’m not looking for you to just agree with me then order a team into action. What I’m asking is, will you think about it? The risk, in this case, might be worth taking.”

  “Of course we’ll think about it. Good night, Karl.”

  Jessica hung up her cell phone, then took another bite from her pizza. She thought of Chelmsford, the nebbish professor, working late in his office at the Pentagon. She admired him for calling. He cared. She was eating pizza and watching a B movie about Australia and Chelmsford was working, trying to figure out a way out of the India-Pakistan mess.

  She put down the pizza, turned the movie off, then put on the news.

  14

  FORTUNA ESTATE

  PATULA HILL

  BROUMANA, LEBANON

  The seasonal winds came from the Mediterranean Sea. They blew in a southerly direction, through the low plains along the coast of Lebanon, then dispersed through canyon after canyon up through the hills above Beirut and the small town of Broumana.

  On a blue stone terrace, next to a villa on Patula Hill, the breeze made the newspaper in Aswan Fortuna’s hands rustle and nearly blow away. He sat down and opened the paper. The India-Pakistan war dominated the front page of the paper. He read the articles carefully, sipping his coffee. Finally, he stood and walked to a large rosebush at the edge of the terrace.

  “Pakistan is going to beat India out of Kashmir,” said Fortuna. His hair was combed elegantly back, longish, parted down the middle.

  “And that is good, yes?” asked Candela. She was reclined on a teak chaise next to the gunite swimming pool, topless.

  “Good? It’s glorious, my dear.” Fortuna knelt next to her. He placed his right hand on her knee, then ran his fingers up her deeply tan thigh, brushing the top of her white bikini.

  “You’re the only man I know who would call war glorious.”

  “Don’t you see? If Islam is to ever be the blanket that covers the earth, the battle must begin somewhere.”

  “But aren’t you afraid it will get out of control? What if India defeats Pakistan?”

  Fortuna said nothing. He stood up and walked to the edge of the slate terrace. He counted a handful of guards, machine guns in hand, spread out along the perimeter of the property. He looked in the distance at Beirut. The sea behind it shimmered.

  Fortuna walked around the pool and inside the house. Four men were seated at the kitchen table.

  “What’s the report?” asked Fortuna.

  “Youssef was successful with the Customs employee,” said Nebuchar. “We have information about what part of Australia Andreas is in.”

  “Is he dead yet?”

  “We found out he’s in Australia less than four weeks ago. We found out what part of Australia he’s in two days ago. Give it some time, Father.”

  “I’ve given it time! It’s been over a year since Andreas murdered Alexander.”

  “It’s a big country, as they say,” said Nebuchar. “There are twenty-two million people. One of them is Andreas. I have a team of seven men, all Al-Muqawama, the best Hezbollah has to offer. But it takes time.”

  “What are they doing?” asked Fortuna impatiently.

  “Now that we know what part of the country he’s in, we know he works on a ranch,” said Nebuchar. “So now it’s a matter of narrowing it down.”

  “What about the photos?”

  “Borchardt sent us the photos, Aswan,” said another man at the table. He pulled a manila envelope from his bag and placed it on the table. “They were taken after Andreas was awarded a medal by the U.S. president. Borchardt asked for six million dollars.”

  “Mother of God, six million dollars.”

  Fortuna pulled the photos from the envelope. There were two photos, both showing Dewey the day he was given the award. He had short hair, and wore a suit. He was big, tough-looking, handsome. One showed him smiling as he shook hands with President Allaire. The other showed Allaire placing the medal around Dewey’s neck. In both photos, a pretty woman stood at the president’s side.

  Fortuna studied the photos. “Who’s the woman?”

  “Jessica Tanzer,” said another man. “The national security advisor for America.”

  “And Youssef has these?”

  “Yes,” said Nebuchar.

  “It’s taking too much time,” said Fortuna, tossing the photos down on the table.

  “Don’t lose your temper now, Papa. We’re extremely close.”

  “Candela could have found him by now, for God’s sake. She could’ve found him with a flashlight and a map. It takes you nearly a year just to find out what country he’s in. All the while you’ve spent what, five, six, seven million?”

  Nebuchar stood up, stepped toward his father, then moved his face to within inches of his father’s.

  “The only thing Candela is good at finding is your cock and your wallet, Father.”

  The three men who had been seated at the table next to Nebuchar leaped out of their chairs and pulled Nebuchar away from his father. Nebuchar struggled against them, his powerful frame hard to dislodge. It took all of them to tug him away from Aswan, and when they did, Nebuchar tripped on one of the men’s boots, falling to the marble floor.

  Aswan stepped forward. He looked into Nebuchar’s eyes, then swung his right arm down and across Nebuchar’s cheek. Nebuchar absorbed the blow, then looked at his father with hatred in his eyes.

  “Whatever money you spent is not your money,” Nebuchar whispered, wiping his hand across his cheek. “It was Alexander’s. You spend it like you earned it.”

  “I want Andreas dead.”

  “And he will be dead!” screamed Nebuchar. He stood up, glared at Aswan, then turned and walked to the door.

  Aswan watched him walk out of the house, then looked down at his right hand, the one with which he’d just struck his son. He shut his eyes, regretfully, for a few seconds. When he opened them, the three men at the table were all staring at him.

  “Get out,” said Aswan. “Don’t come back until Andreas is dead.”

  * * *

  When the men had left, Aswan turned to see Candela, standing in the doorway, her small red thong the only clothing she wore. In her hand, she held a cell phone.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “It’s for you.” She held the phone out. “Should I take a message?”

  Fortuna walked across the kitchen and took the phone from her.

  “What is it?” he asked angrily.

/>   “Aswan, it’s Khalid el-Jaqonda. Is this a bad time?”

  Fortuna breathed deeply.

  “No,” said Fortuna. “No. I’m sorry. Khalid, I have been thinking about you. How are you?”

  “Fine, fine, everything is fine. But I can’t talk for long.”

  “What can I do for you?” asked Fortuna.

  “No, Aswan, the question is what can I do for you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Watch the news,” said el-Jaqonda. “I told you that our day would soon come.”

  “You mean?”

  “Just watch. And please pray for me.”

  15

  PALM COVE

  QUEENSLAND, AUSTRALIA

  Palm Cove was crowded with sunbathers, swimmers, and surfers. The heat was in the eighties. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky.

  In front of a T-shirt shop near the southern end of the beach, a man in a blue bathing suit lay on a big orange and yellow beach towel. He was in his thirties, olive-skinned, very tan, with a mess of uncombed, perfectly blond hair, the product of a $14.99 bottle of peroxide. The effect was a slightly punkish look, a dark-skinned Johnny Rotten. He blended in, just another weirdo, at one of the most popular tourist destinations in Australia. That was the brilliance of the blond dye job. Nobody suspected Youssef was a terrorist.

  Youssef’s chest was wiry, gaunt, but muscular. He had brown eyes, which cast about, always searching. The eyes were as blank as stone, but they hid a fury that was reaching its boiling point.

  He looked at his watch, then sat up. He walked down the beach out into the water and began swimming freestyle parallel to the beach. After five minutes, he stopped and treaded water.

  In front of him, the beach was dense with sunbathers, blankets laid out in a madras of stripes and colors, umbrellas dotting the sand. Youssef searched, then caught the movement of a man. That man was walking into the water more than a hundred feet away. He was a bald man, young, in his early twenties. He too was Arab.