Coup d’État

by Ben Coes

  “Okay,” said Dewey, between bites. He glanced at his watch. “Let’s talk about the team.”

  Polk emptied his coffee cup, then crushed it in his hands.

  “It’s a four-man job,” said Polk. “Depending on who we select to replace El-Khayab with, there will be at least one, maybe two multistage assaults. If I were there, I’d want some extra hands to carry the load.”

  “I want Deltas,” said Dewey. “On the size of the team, I want to understand the design of the incursion before we decide on how many men I’ll need. At least two, maybe three. My gut tells me two.”

  “That’s awfully thin.”

  “It’s the way I like it.”

  “Okay.”

  Bradstreet took a stack of manila envelopes and held it out.

  “Here’s the list of Deltas we have in theater,” said Bradstreet. He pushed the small stack of folders toward Dewey. “That’s Iraq and Afghanistan and one guy in the UK. JSOC is standing by on our orders. You should review the group right now. We’re going to be scrambling to get whoever you select to Bagram in time to make the Khyber run work.”

  “Got it,” said Dewey. He started flipping through. “Do you have former Deltas in here?”

  “Yes,” said Bradstreet. “Everyone’s in there, including a couple of guys who are private contractors now.”

  “Okay,” said Dewey. He opened the first folder.

  There were sixteen Deltas or former Deltas in either Iraq or Afghanistan. Dewey flipped through all sixteen files before going back for deeper dives. The ages ranged from twenty-four to thirty-six. The photos told him little, but they were interesting to look at nevertheless; they all looked different. Three were black, a couple were Hispanic. One looked Arabic. The rest were white. Some were big, others looked smaller and more academic. The only trait they all had in common was the look in the eyes. Blank, far away, detached, wary; mean.

  Dewey opened the manila folder on the Arab-looking Delta:

  Millar, Alex

  DOB: 9-17-87

  POB: Karachi, Pakistan

  Dewey read on. Millar had been born in Pakistan, the only son of a history professor at the University of Karachi. Millar’s mother had died in childbirth, and his father had never remarried. Originally, his name was Arshad Mehr, but his father had had it changed when they emigrated to the United States in 1998, at the age of ten. He’d grown up in Chicago. His father had joined the faculty at the University of Chicago, becoming a professor of Near Eastern languages. Millar had gone away to boarding school, attending Groton School, then went to West Point. After West Point, Millar had joined Rangers, then been recruited into Delta. He was only twenty-five, but that didn’t worry Dewey. Dewey liked the way he looked; he would blend in. He also knew Punjabi and Urdu, two of the main languages in Pakistan.

  “Millar,” said Dewey, pointing to the photo of the Middle Eastern–looking Delta. He looked at Bradstreet. “This says he’s on a JSOC consignment to Langley out of London. First question: Why?”

  “We’re assessing him for Special Operations Group,” said Polk. “London is just an address; he’s doing a lot of traveling. He’s young, but last week he successfully killed a midlevel Hezbollah IED builder named Saa who’d been running a small bomb school. Millar handled it by himself. Went in as a recruit and they bought it. He was inside the house for three days, picking up intel on how they’re making them and where they’re sourcing materials, who’s paying. Then he killed Saa and two others, destroyed the building. It was a smooth operation.”

  “Can you get him here on time?” asked Dewey, looking at Bradstreet.

  “Yes,” said Polk. “Just try not to get him killed. These guys who can speak the language are worth their weight in fucking gold.”

  Dewey finished his sandwich as he looked through the remaining files. He stopped on one file in particular that was thicker than the others, mainly because he found its contents entertaining.

  Iverheart, Rob

  DOB: 8-1-1979

  POB: Los Angeles, California

  The photo on the cover showed a blond-haired, good-looking man with a beard and mustache. Iverheart grew up in Bakersfield, California, attended public schools through high school, then went to USC. It took Iverheart six years to graduate from USC; his files showed that he’d gotten into trouble on numerous occasions while at USC; twice for fighting, one time even getting arrested for disrupting the peace. He was suspended for a semester, the third and last time he’d been suspended from USC. The file showed a series of letters between Iverheart’s uncle, who was on the university’s board of trustees, and the then-president of the university. It was clear that political influence had kept Iverheart at USC. He graduated with a 1.8 GPA.

  Attached to Iverheart’s transcript there was a notarized “Letter of Understanding” signed by Iverheart in which he agreed, after his disrupting the peace arrest, that if he was allowed to continue as a student at USC, he would enlist in one of the four branches of the U.S. military upon graduation. Iverheart had done so, enlisting in the army. Inside the army, Iverheart was assigned to the 82nd Airborne out of Fort Bragg, North Carolina. Iverheart graduated first in his training class at Bragg. But what caught Dewey’s eye was the fact that Iverheart won the boxing championship at Fort Bragg while in the 82nd Airborne. He beat the four-time Bragg boxing champion, a Delta who weighed twenty-five pounds more than him. Iverheart had been selected for duty in Colombia, setting up kill teams deep in the jungles of the country and helping train the Colombian Army in the methods of interdiction and jungle warfare. One evening, while on leave in Cartagena, Iverheart had been at a bar and saw a man whom he recognized as a high-level member of the North Coast Cartel named Papa Rodriguez. Though off duty, Iverheart had nevertheless followed him, tracking him first to an apartment in Cartagena, then the next morning, into the jungle. Iverheart’s initiative led to the capture not only of Rodriguez but also the discovery of a new cocaine processing facility and the arrest of a dozen other cartel operatives. He was asked to join Delta a week later.

  “I like this guy,” said Dewey. He pushed the file toward Polk.

  “Rob Iverheart,” said Polk. “He’s running around Kabul somewhere.”

  “Let me get someone on that,” said Bradstreet, standing up and walking toward the front of the plane.

  “Let’s discuss leadership inside Pakistan,” said Polk. “I want to patch Hector and Jessica in.”

  Polk nodded to Drake. He picked up his phone and dialed. In a few seconds, he placed the handset down and put the speakerphone on.

  “Hector, Jessica, are you both on?” asked Polk.

  “Yes,” said Jessica. “You have me here.”

  “Me too,” said Calibrisi. “What’s the latest?”

  “We need to talk about succession,” said Polk. “Who we’re going to install as the next president of Pakistan.”

  “All right, before we start, I want to make something crystal clear,” said Calibrisi. “The most important qualification for the next president of Pakistan is not whether or not President Allaire likes him, Jessica Tanzer likes him, I like him, or if he’s a good guy or not. This is an operational decision. Who can we install by noontime tomorrow. That’s it. This is not highfalutin geopolitical strategy. It’s tactical on-the-ground feasibility. Dewey, you’re the one who has to execute this. So listen carefully and make sure you’re comfortable getting the job done with the limited amount of time you have.”

  “Got it,” said Dewey.

  “What do we have, Will?” asked Calibrisi.

  “Three options,” said Drake, leaning back in his chair. “First, General Persom Karreff.” Drake punched his laptop. Photos of an olive-skinned man with longish gray hair and glasses, a military uniform on. “Karreff was the number two at ISI, then he ran Special Services Group until earlier this year when El-Khayab promoted him. He’s a career soldier; grew up in Rawalpindi, went to Pakistan Military Academy, then the Command and Staff College in Quetta. He’s smart and n
oncontroversial. He’s Muslim, but as far as we know, he’s not a jihadist.”

  “So what’s the problem?” asked Dewey.

  Drake looked at Polk.

  “I don’t have a problem with Karreff,” said Polk. “Hector does.”

  “That’s right,” said Calibrisi over the speaker. “Look, on the positive side, Karreff is obviously capable. He controls the military. He knows the ranking hierarchy because he put them there. They’re loyal to him. He’s gotten rid of the Zardari loyalists in the upper ranks. More important, he’s kind of a Renaissance man; he loves Paris, wine, women. He has a mistress. In other words, he would, I think, fancy himself presidential material. He understands how the world works and my guess is he has no interest in fighting a nuclear war with India.”

  “Why don’t you like him?” asked Dewey.

  “I’ve met Karreff at least a dozen times,” said Calibrisi. “Despite the fact that he’s running the armed forces, he’s weak. He’s risen because he doesn’t offend people. It’s why he was selected. Khan, their defense minister, selected him, not El-Khayab, because he knew he could manipulate him. This worries me. Either he agreed to the dropping of the bomb on Karoo or he didn’t. If he did agree with it, he’s not our man. If he disagreed with dropping a nuclear device but didn’t stop it, then it’s worse. If we ask Karreff he’ll read the situation, agree to do it, then back off before the confrontation that will need to take place with El-Khayab and Khan. You and your team would be highly vulnerable at this point. In fact you’d be dead, and you wouldn’t even know it. The other thing is, even if Karreff were to go through with the coup, a more ambitious general is going to put a bullet in him. It would only be a matter of time. And if that guy is not the guy America puts in there—if it’s a jihadist like Osama Khan—we could in fact be in a worse predicament than we are today.”

  “Keep moving, Will,” said Polk.

  “The second option is the man who runs Special Services Group,” said Drake. He typed again and the photos of Karreff were replaced by a picture of a younger man, in his forties with short-cropped black hair and dark skin, tough-looking. “Itrikan Parmir. He’s young and talented. Very ambitious. His mother, believe it or not, is Indian, born in Punjab. My guess is he’s extremely pissed off about the bomb that was dropped on Karoo. Parmir was an SSG commander during the early years of the Operation Enduring Freedom, and one of the good ones. He and his men have killed literally thousands of Taliban. Some of the more corrupt members of armed forces have targeted him; he was shot by a Pakistani lieutenant in 2009 while on convoy outside of Landi Kotal. The bullet struck him in the chest, but he had armor on.”

  “What’d he do?” asked Dewey.

  “He stabbed the guy in the throat,” said Drake.

  “He’s got balls,” said Polk. “I would go with him. He’ll not only have no problem working with the U.S., with making peace with India, but he also understands the politics inside PDF.”

  “It sounds like he has enemies,” said Dewey.

  “Everyone has enemies,” said Polk.

  “I like Parmir,” said Calibrisi. “We’ve studied him for several years now. He’s a rising star. The only reason Khan didn’t have him shot like he did so many others who had been loyal to Zardari is because he needs him. He’s one of the best field commanders Pakistan has.”

  “So let’s get this over with,” said Dewey. “He sounds fine. Let’s get on with designing the operation.”

  “There’s a problem,” said Bradstreet.

  “What?” asked Polk.

  “We can’t find him,” said Bradstreet. “As of yesterday morning, when we started tracking replacements for El-Khayab, we’ve been unable to locate General Parmir. Last known whereabouts was Lahore a little over a week ago. We might get lucky here; Lord knows we have a ton of feelers out there. But we just don’t know where the fucking guy is.”

  “Who’s the third option?” asked Dewey.

  “The third option is the commanding field marshal prosecuting the war against India,” said Drake. He punched up another photo on the plasma screen, this one a black-and-white head shot of a Pakistani man with longish dark hair, slightly messed up, his face a little jowly, and a mustache. “Xavier Bolin. He’s popular with the grunt-level troops, less so with the upper ranks. Career soldier who came in as an enlistee. He grew up in a poor neighborhood in Karachi. He’s kind of a street thug, if you know what I mean. But, he’s not a jihadist. In fact, we know from NSA wiretaps that he despises Omar El-Khayab.”

  “What’s the issue with him?” asked Dewey, holding the photograph and studying it.

  “First of all, he’s as corrupt as they come,” said Drake. “For several years, Bolin has been working with a contracts officer on his own staff to manufacture fake contracts payable to a dummy corporation, which he, of course, approves. The Ministry of Defense pays them. Bolin has stolen more than thirty million dollars, it’s sitting in a Swiss bank account. He’s not the first to do it. But it is troublesome.”

  “He wouldn’t be the first scumbag America worked with,” said Dewey.

  “And he won’t be the last,” said Calibrisi.

  “Can he deliver the upper ranks of the military?” asked Jessica.

  “Yes,” said Drake. “He’s feared. If he would work with us, the hierarchy, for the most part, will go along. Those that don’t would, no doubt, die a very quick death.”

  “The goal here is someone who will make peace with New Delhi,” said Calibrisi. “Bolin will make peace. The other stuff is window dressing. I don’t see how Bolin’s corruption could endanger the mission.”

  “We might have to pay him,” said Drake.

  “That’s not a problem,” said Calibrisi. “Dewey, you’re authorized to offer him whatever you want. Ten, twenty, thirty million.”

  “So other than the fact that he’s a dirtbag, what’s the problem?” asked Dewey, leaning back in his chair.

  “In this case, the problem is, we do know where he’s located,” said Bradstreet. “He’s moving between encampments in the Mushkoh Valley, around Drass, in the middle of the battle theater. He’s running the war. It’s a logistical nightmare just getting you there. Then there’s the assault. That won’t be easy either. He’s going to be extremely well guarded.”

  Dewey closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose, deep in thought.

  “What are you thinking?” asked Polk.

  “I think we should focus on Karreff,” said Dewey. “If we have to go to the war front. We’re going to be pressed for time.”

  Dewey looked up at the clock. It was 7:30 A.M. The thirty hours he’d started with was already down to twenty-eight and a half. He watched as the red second hand swept quickly across the clock face.

  “So you want Karreff?” asked Calibrisi over the speaker. “That’s fine. You’re the one who’s running the operation. But we have to disclose something to you. There’s evidence showing that before Karreff was appointed head of the armed forces, when he was number two man at ISI, that he was helping the Taliban.”

  “So what?” said Dewey. “Sounds like we’re already working with the Taliban.”

  “The people we’re working with aren’t trying to kill Americans,” said Calibrisi.

  “Karreff supplied Taliban with mines that were used on roads in Afghanistan,” said Polk. “Roads used by U.S. troops. In 2006 alone, he authorized four different shipments of mines.”

  “Now, did Karreff order the mines be used on U.S. troops,” said Calibrisi, “or did he simply turn a blind eye to some of the collaboration that was going on, and that is still going on, between Pakistan and the Taliban? That we don’t know.”

  “NSA has one recording of a cell phone call that took place between Karreff and an unidentified Taliban operative in which Karreff tells him to quote ‘warm the snows in Kabul,’” said Drake.

  “Let me get this straight,” said Dewey. “Karreff supplied bombs used to kill U.S. troops?”

  “Or knew of th
em being supplied,” answered Drake.

  “This might surprise you but I don’t have a problem with it,” said Calibrisi. “It’s not disqualifying, in my opinion. The fact that he’s weak is. No one is clean over there, Dewey. No one. Next to Iran and Syria, Pakistan is the most corrupt place on earth. The generals and politicians in these countries have been pulled in different directions for so long, conflicting directions, by greed and money, religion and politics. Frankly, even by us. At some point, there’s no moral compass. Having one just gets you killed. We’re deluding ourselves if we think we’re going to find Abe Lincoln over here. Even if Karreff did help the Taliban, it doesn’t matter. We have a larger goal here. At the end of the day, we’re trying to save U.S. lives by not having to fight a war with China.”

  “I’m not going to risk my life for a guy who helped kill U.S. soldiers,” said Dewey. “Period. End of statement. Let’s go find Bolin.”

  There was a long silence in the room, interrupted only by the steady din of the E-3’s engines.

  “You realize this means a trip to the war front?” asked Calibrisi.

  Dewey was silent.

  “It also means we’ll have to kill Karreff,” said Bradstreet. “He has too many generals that are loyal to him. If he’s alive, he could create real problems.”

  “The schedule is getting tighter,” said Jessica. “Do we know where Karreff is?”

  “Yes,” said Bradstreet. “He’ll be in or around Islamabad and Rawalpindi.”

  “Twelve hours to take out Karreff, then go and find Bolin,” said Calibrisi. “You okay with that?”

  “Piece of cake,” said Dewey.

  37

  BATH & RACQUETS CLUB

  CLARIDGE’S HOTEL

  MAYFAIR, LONDON

  Alex Millar pushed open the thick glass door and stepped onto the brightly lit squash court. He was half an hour late for his match.