by Ben Coes
Jessica looked down at her hands, clasped together on the table in front of her. She separated them for a moment. She watched as they trembled like leaves in a mild breeze, then reclasped them so nobody else could see.
Jessica knew the meeting was over. She knew the meeting was over before they even got there. Ghandra and his war cabinet had already made up their minds. Could she blame them? No. It was an impossible situation. To not respond to Pakistan would likely result in an uprising by the very people who had elected Ghandra, as well as more bombs from Pakistan, and quite possibly an invasion by China. To respond with a proportional strike would only lead to a series of nuclear strikes that wouldn’t stop until Pakistan and India were both destroyed.
She looked from her hands to President Allaire. His face was expressionless. Ashen. To Allaire’s left, her eyes found Ghandra. His normal confidence was gone. His brow appeared furrowed. He kept rubbing his eyes. Jessica knew that on some level the decision to kill so many people, regardless of who they were, enemy or not, was tormenting him.
She looked at Hector, who glanced at his watch. He looked pissed off. He wanted to get out of there and had already written off the meeting.
Trust yourself, Jess. She heard the words, her own words, inside her head. Trust yourself.
“I have an idea,” Jessica said, interrupting the silence of the conference room.
26
WHITEY’S BAR
COOKTOWN
Khoury pushed his way to the back of the crowded bar. He leaned against the wall and fumbled for his iPhone. He could practically feel his heart in his throat. Nervous sweat coursed down his back. His eyes darted between the iPhone and the man at the bar, the man he tried hard not to stare at, the American.
I found him Whiteys Bar
Khoury felt for his silenced Glock, tucked into his pants at the belt.
Should I shoot him here? he thought to himself. I have a clean shot. Answer me, Youssef.
Khoury waited a minute, then a second minute. It seemed like an eternity. He watched as the American threw back a shot of whiskey, then a second. His eyes alternated between the iPhone and Andreas. Answer, Youssef. Finally, a Tweet appeared, from Youssef.
Whats he doing?
Drinking
Did he see you?
No
Is he leaving?
No. talking to girl. He has a beard and long hair
WAIT. everyone to whiteys NOW! kill him if he tries to leave
Khoury put the iPhone in his pocket. He stood at the rear wall, trying to blend in, as he had been trained to do, watching the man he’d spent so long searching for.
27
RASHTRAPATI BHAVAN
NEW DELHI
All heads in the Security Room room turned to Jessica. She looked around the table, met Calibrisi’s surprised eyes for a brief moment, then President Allaire’s, and finally settled on President Ghandra’s.
“Go on, Jessica,” said President Ghandra.
“Coup d’état,” Jessica said.
She waited a moment and let the words sink in. Then she continued. “We design and execute the removal of Omar El-Khayab. America handles it. We remove the cancer. We install someone who will work with India. In the meantime India maintains its war stance. You keep your planes in the air. You fortify the northern border with China by moving troops to the area. You prosecute the war front in Kargil and Baltistan.”
She paused and leaned forward. The room was silent.
Finally, Indra Singh shook his head.
“Oh, sure, that should be easy,” Singh scoffed, waving his hand in the air. “We never thought of that. Just pop off El-Khayab. Jessica, that is, how do you say it, a mission impossible. We’ve been targeting El-Khayab since before he was elected. He is better guarded than even you, President Allaire. It is simply not a viable option, and certainly not within the time parameters we have to work with.”
“How many foreign leaders has India removed from power?” asked Jessica.
Singh was silent.
“How many?” she repeated.
“The answer is, not a one,” said Calibrisi.
“The United States has removed three foreign leaders in the last twenty years,” said Jessica. “There are no guarantees, but we know how to do it.”
“It will take too much time,” said Singh. “We don’t have the time.”
Jessica stared at Singh, whose face was red with anger. She turned to President Ghandra.
“Will you give us the time?” she asked, looking into Ghandra’s eyes.
“No, that is not an option,” said Singh. “India has not—”
“Shut up, Indra,” said President Ghandra sharply. He turned to Jessica. “How much time are we talking about, Jessica?”
She looked at Harry Black, then Hector Calibrisi.
“At least two weeks,” Calibrisi said. “Three would be optimal.”
“One week,” said Jessica, turning to Ghandra. “We need a week, Mr. President.”
Ghandra glanced around the conference table. Singh was shaking his head, apoplectic. He moved down the line of his advisors and asked each one of them to give his opinion. Every member of Ghandra’s war cabinet was against delaying the nuclear strike.
“If it had even a prayer of working I might reconsider,” said Morosla, the secretary of RAW. “But it won’t work.”
After polling his cabinet, Ghandra turned to Jessica. He smiled warmly at her. He seemed to have regained his composure and calmness that she so admired.
“Two days,” Ghandra said, overruling his cabinet. “You have forty-eight hours to remove Omar El-Khayab from power.” Ghandra pointed at the clock on the wall. “It’s noon. Two days from now, unless Omar El-Khayab is gone, we will begin our attack.”
“Thank you,” said Jessica. She looked at the clock, then at President Allaire. He stared back at her without expression.
“After that, we destroy Pakistan,” said Ghandra. “Unless they strike again in the interim. In which case we will destroy them not in days or hours, but in a handful of seconds.”
Jessica nodded. She said nothing. She glanced at her silver Cartier tank watch. It was exactly noon local time. She felt a tightness in her stomach as she watched the second hand on her watch move around the watch face. Forty-seven hours, fifty-nine minutes, forty seconds, and counting …
28
WHITEY’S BAR
COOKTOWN
“Do you want to come back to the ranch?” Charlotte asked. “I have my own carriage house. It’s very private.”
But Dewey was no longer listening to Charlotte.
The olive-skinned man with the Afro at the back of the room glanced around nervously. Whoever it was, he had found what he was looking for, and it was Dewey. Dewey recognized that. He saw it in the hatred, in the way the man’s eyes darted about constantly, settling back on him every few moments. Dewey knew when someone had come to kill him.
Dewey removed his hand from Charlotte’s hip, lifted his left leg, and felt for the dagger sheathed against his calf. Reflex: making sure it was there. His brain sharpened, his muscles tensed. He felt the steel of the Colt at his lower back. A fever of warmth invaded his veins.
“I decorated it myself,” said Charlotte, still talking about the carriage house at her family’s ranch. “I cleaned it out and painted it. It used to be a barn for the old owner’s prized stallion. I think you’ll like it. It’s very cozy.”
The killer was young, early twenties. He wore an orange polo shirt with the collar popped up. He’d marked Dewey a minute ago, five minutes ago, half an hour ago. He stared, unaware that Dewey could see him in the mirror behind the bar.
“Of course, we can stay for a few more drinks,” said Charlotte. “I just don’t want you to get into trouble. Wink, wink.”
Dewey reached behind him and felt the .45 caliber handgun tucked into the small of his back, beneath the windbreaker. He stood up.
“I’ll be right back.”
Charlot
te arched her head to the side, made a fake disappointed look, then smiled. “Sure, Dewey. I’ll be here.”
Dewey looked quickly at Talbot, who was deep in conversation with the Frenchwoman. He turned and pushed quickly through swarms of people to the door. There, in the glass of the door, he caught a glimpse of the bright orange shirt. The killer was following. Dewey had surprised the killer with his abrupt move.
He stepped outside onto the crowded sidewalk. It was still hot and he felt sweat pouring from his chest, wetting his shirt. He needed to move fast now. He jogged one block, then went left. He moved away from the strip, down empty sidewalks, past small houses. He jogged past car after parked car, beneath the glow of streetlights.
Looking at windshields as he moved, Dewey searched for a reflection, a sign the young killer was following behind. In the driver’s side window of a pickup truck, he caught a glimpse of the orange shirt. The killer, trying to keep up, was running too fast.
Almost sprinting now, Dewey turned the corner. He reached into the small of his back, pulled out the Colt M1911. From his front pocket he grabbed the silencer and screwed it into the Colt’s nozzle. Sweat rained down from his head and chest as he sprinted for his life. In a block, he took a hard right down another street. He crossed the street, then ducked behind a sedan and watched. The killer, following Dewey’s turn, appeared and looked around. His left arm moved up to his face. Dewey heard his panicked voice, words barked into a cell phone.
How many are there?
Dewey took off again, picking up his pace, looking in front of him for others, running as fast as he could down the sidewalk.
He hit the next intersection sprinting. He heard the scratch of the terrorist’s shoes on the pavement, charging after him down the sidewalk.
Parked at the far corner, Dewey saw a white van and caught a silhouette moving toward the back of it. Trapped between two killers, he looked around quickly for a third man but saw nothing. He ran down the middle of the street for the front of the van, then ducked in front of it just as the terrorist with the orange shirt rounded the corner. Dewey crouched in front of the van’s grille. He listened for the sound of footsteps behind the van as he waited for the orange shirt to appear.
Dewey waited, gun cocked. The killer with the orange shirt appeared, running into the road, then down the middle of it toward him. Dewey waited another second, then two, watching the killer come toward him, oblivious to the fact that he was waiting for him in front of the van, hidden behind the back bumper of a pickup.
Dewey steadied his arm, then squeezed the Colt’s trigger, firing a silenced bullet across half a block into the killer’s chest, knocking him backward. The body dropped into the middle of the street. A pool of blood quickly spread onto the black tar as the terrorist was killed.
Dewey turned. He looked around again for others as he listened for the other killer, the one at the rear of the van.
Dewey crouched and waited. He heard the terrorist begin to move along the passenger side of the van. Dewey remained in a crouch, close to the blacktop. He ducked and looked beneath the van. He saw the silhouette of two legs stepping slowly toward the front of the van.
Dewey waited. One second, ten seconds, then fifteen. He waited in a crouch at the front for nearly half a minute. Drops of sweat cascaded down his face, drenching his hands, arms, legs, and shirt. He heard the faint scratch of movement, denim, a leg shifting in space, just a whisper. He looked up. Above his head, the black tip of a silencer emerged from behind the edge of the van.
Dewey lunged, grabbing the killer’s weapon just as bullets started to fly from the machine gun’s silencer. Dewey felt the heat of the gun barrel, but held on. A shower of slugs struck a windshield across the street, shattering it. Dewey pulled back sharply and ripped the weapon from the killer’s arms. The hail of bullets ceased as Dewey threw the machine gun to the blacktop. The startled terrorist was frozen in place for a second, then reached for Dewey’s neck. He slammed his knee into Dewey’s abdomen. His fists struck wildly. A fist hit Dewey’s mouth and Dewey tasted blood. The killer hit him again, a sharp punch to Dewey’s chest, the blow absorbed by a wall of muscles.
Dewey turned, his back to the killer for just an instant, then wheeled his left foot in a vicious roundhouse kick to the Arab’s stomach. The terrorist was knocked back a few steps, moaning, clutching his chest. Dewey followed the kick with a fierce swing to the Arab’s face, crushing the killer’s nose, blood exploding out everywhere. Another strike, this time Dewey’s left fist to now-cracked ribs. The terrorist fell backward onto the sidewalk, and reached inside his pocket, pulling out a cell phone. Dewey reached down and tore the cell from the man’s grip before he could say something. Frisking him, he found a handgun in the killer’s ankle holster and removed it. Incapacitated, the Arab grunted from the pain.
Dewey stood over the man. He needed to move quickly, before someone discovered the corpse of the other man, the thug in the orange shirt, in the middle of the road. He tucked his handgun into the small of his back and reached for his knife. As the terrorist struggled to breathe, Dewey knelt atop his chest and stuck the tip of the combat blade into his mouth. He pushed the blade in, vertically, so that the jagged teeth along the upper blade ran across the top of the terrorist’s mouth, against his upper teeth, and the razor-sharp blade of the knife was pressed into the man’s lower teeth.
Slowly, Dewey pushed the blade down into the killer’s mouth. He stopped when it was a few inches in. The knife now propped the terrorist’s mouth wide open. Biting down or struggling in any way was futile; the blade would sever the man’s tongue and lip. Both men knew that one last push by Dewey and the knife could easily go straight through to the man’s spine, killing him. He writhed in pain, as blood poured like water from his lips and mouth down his chin. In the pale glow of a distant lamppost, the terrorist’s brown, bloodshot eyes looked up at Dewey, helpless.
With the thick steel blade propping the man’s mouth open, Dewey reached into the man’s mouth, feeling the molars until one loosened. He tore the fake tooth from the mouth and looked at it quickly. The cyanide pill was the size of a pinhead.
The terrorist was silent.
“Talk and I’ll let you eat the cyanide,” said Dewey. “Don’t talk and I’ll tie you up. The police will find you. You’ll be at Guantánamo in a day or two. They’ll torture more information out of you than you ever thought you knew. Aswan Fortuna will exterminate your family by the end of the week out of revenge.”
The killer grunted.
“How many?” demanded Dewey. He glanced down the sidewalk both ways, an eye out for any others, but saw no one. “How many?” Dewey pushed the blade half an inch further in. The terrorist grunted, gagging.
“Seven,” the man said awkwardly as the blade held against his lips and teeth.
“Where are the others?”
“Coming. Nearby.”
“How close are you? Do you know where I live?”
The terrorist shook his head. “No. But they have your friend from the bar by now. They’ll find out from him and go there next.”
“If they harm anyone—”
“It’s too late. He’s a dead man.”
Dewey shook his head back and forth as his anger boiled over. It took everything he had to restrain himself.
“Al-Qaeda?”
“Hezbollah.”
“Are your instructions to kill me or take me back to Beirut?”
The terrorist shook his head, back and forth again.
“Kill.” The edges of the terrorist’s mouth flared up at each end, a slight grin.
Dewey stared at the young terrorist. It was time.
“Break my neck,” whispered the killer, as if sensing Dewey’s thoughts. “Please. A soldier’s death.”
Dewey leaned forward. He placed his left hand on the side of the man’s neck. With his right hand, he grabbed the man’s forehead.
“Aswan will never stop,” whispered the young terrorist.
Dew
ey said nothing.
In a swift motion, Dewey ripped the man’s forehead to the side as he held his spine steady. The dull snap of the terrorist’s neck echoed down the empty street.
Dewey stood up and walked back to Main Street. He walked past shop windows, a diving store, a bikini shop, until he saw the neon sign a block away: WHITEY’S.
His eyes were drawn to the street in front of the bar. A chill ran from his ankles up his back. Across the street from the entrance stood two men. Short-cropped hair, one was in a black windbreaker, the other in a red, white, and blue warm-up jacket, watching the entrance to the bar like wolves. It was in their eyes.
Dewey looked for others. Seeing no one else, he turned and walked away from the bar. He took his time, a tourist out for a stroll. After two blocks, he crossed to the elevated boardwalk above the beach. He went to the railing, next to a couple, kissing and oblivious. Dewey leaned down, jumped through the railing slats and onto the sand ten feet below the boardwalk, his feet striking first. He rolled and then looked up. The couple was still kissing, unaware.
Dewey walked, hidden in the dark recess of the overhanging boardwalk. When he reached the place where he knew the two men were waiting, he pulled the silenced Colt from his back.
Dewey paused. The terrorists were swarming. The first had seen him, and now that knowledge was disseminated through the group. He realized now the danger in which he’d inadvertently placed Talbot, not to mention Charlotte.
He stepped away from the darkness so that he could see the boardwalk above him. Hidden by the shadows, he watched another couple standing against the railing, holding hands, their backs to the ocean and to him. Behind them, Dewey could see the tops of the shoulders of the two killers, and their heads, which shifted about as they searched for him. He raised the .45. He aimed it in the only open space he could find that had a direct angle: between the legs of the young girl, now leaning toward the boy and kissing him. The taller terrorist leaned in, whispered something in the other killer’s ear. Dewey squeezed the trigger. The bullet tore through the humid air and the terrorist’s head jolted left, a millisecond later the left side of his skull exploded outward toward the car traffic. The man crumpled, falling awkwardly to the sidewalk at the feet of the other terrorist.