by Ben Coes
“You’ll tell me—”
“I’ll speak to nobody other than Bolin,” said el-Jaqonda. He craned his neck from the ground and looked at the soldier, who stood now with four other soldiers, surrounding el-Jaqonda. “Tell me, soldier, do you want to explain to your superiors—when another nuclear bomb goes off—that you knew about it and could have prevented it?”
* * *
They moved el-Jaqonda to a small office a floor up. He was placed in a metal chair, his wrists and ankles cuffed. He waited in the room for twenty minutes; every minute felt like an eternity. Finally, the door opened. Bolin walked in.
“Khan’s water boy,” said Bolin as he walked in, two aides by his side. “I remember you. What do you want? What is this about a rogue nuclear device?”
“I’ll tell you,” said el-Jaqonda. “But I want to speak to you alone.”
Bolin looked quizzically at el-Jaqonda. He shrugged, then turned to his aides and pointed toward the door. They left. Bolin shut the door.
“Talk,” said Bolin. “I’m busy. Busy cleaning up the fucking mess you idiots made.”
“There’s no nuclear device,” said el-Jaqonda. “This has to do with the American.”
Bolin was momentarily silent, stunned by el-Jaqonda’s words.
“What? You dragged me up here to talk about the American?”
“Andreas,” said el-Jaqonda. “I represent someone who is willing to pay you for Andreas. It’s personal. Andreas killed his son.”
“Who?” asked Bolin.
“Aswan Fortuna.”
Bolin was silent, and he showed no emotion.
“How much are we talking about?”
“As much as you want, Mr. President.”
65
IN THE AIR OVER THE ARABIAN SEA
Youssef was awakened by the ringing of his cell phone. He opened his eyes. For a moment, he had trouble remembering where he was. He glanced about the cabin of the Hawker, then sat up. On the seat next to him was the leather coat that he’d taken off the dead rancher, Talbot. The sight jolted him, and he remembered where he was.
He reached for his phone.
“Hello,” he said.
“Change of plans, Youssef,” said Nebuchar.
“Oh?” said Youssef. “What do you mean?”
“You’re going to Pakistan. We need you to pick up a package.”
* * *
As nightfall approached, the situation in Islamabad went from bad to worse.
Countless fires dotted the city. Smoke and flames were rife in the square mile surrounding Aiwan-e-Sadr, small fires started by young, angry El-Khayab supporters.
A second battalion of Pakistani Army soldiers helped to quell the vandalism. But the jihadists just spread out across the city, their anger now dispersed in neighborhoods and alleyways across Islamabad and nearby Rawalpindi.
Reports of similar violence came from Peshawar, Karachi, and Lahore.
At 5:30 P.M., Bolin declared martial law. A general curfew would begin at 6:00 P.M.
* * *
Dewey, Millar, and Iverheart waited in the office down the hall from Bolin. On a small Sony television, a replay of a Pakistani cricket match was on, volume down. Millar watched, but neither Dewey or Iverheart joined him. Instead, they stood at the large window, looking down across Constitution Avenue, and beyond, into east Islamabad.
The evening sky shimmered, a streaky orange-purple sunset, a picturesque ceiling above the smoke-filled chaos that teemed at ground level.
In more than a dozen spots, distant neighborhoods far away from the square, cloudy silos of black smoke drifted up to the sky. Inside the square, which had been mostly cleared of people, soldiers with helmets and shields moved in lines against hold-out militants, who came at the soldiers in waves, throwing rocks, bottles, and other debris. Ambulances moved across the square, picking up bodies. It was hard to tell how many people had been killed, but the muted crack of automatic weapons fire from the soldiers came in a steady if unpredictable rhythm.
“Still glad I picked you?” asked Dewey.
“Yes,” said Iverheart.
“Good,” said Dewey. “I was worried you wouldn’t invite me to your Christmas party.”
“You realize we’re going to die if we don’t get out of here soon,” said Iverheart.
“We’ll be fine,” said Dewey. “I promise.”
“Should we have done something different?” asked Iverheart.
“We accomplished our mission,” said Dewey. “That’s what matters. Our job was to remove El-Khayab. The rest of this stuff is irrelevant.”
* * *
At 6:35 P.M. Dewey’s cell rang.
“The jet is at Chaklala,” Jessica said. “I sent in one of the VIP Gulfstreams. I’m sorry it took so long.”
“That’s okay,” said Dewey.
“What’s the situation on the ground? All the networks are still down. The CIA Karachi station chief said it’s chaos.”
“It’s getting ugly,” said Dewey. “El-Khayab had supporters. Islamabad is on fire.”
“President Allaire would like to speak with you,” said Jessica. “Thank you, that sort of thing. Can I patch him in real quick?”
A spectacular red flash burst at the far end of the square, an explosion that was bigger and louder than the small fires and Molotov cocktails up to that point.
“Not right now, Jess. I need to focus on getting the hell out of here.”
Dewey shut his phone just as the door to the office was opening. Field Marshal Bolin entered, followed by a servant.
“Gentlemen,” he said as he stepped into the room. “Your chopper is on its way. You’ll forgive me, but I have had a few fires to put out, so to speak.”
In the servant’s right hand, he held a green bottle, in his left, a small tray with five glasses on it. He placed them on the table, then turned and left.
“I haven’t thanked you yet,” said Bolin. He unscrewed the cap to the bottle. “Pomegranate wine. Made in Faisalabad. I hope you like it.”
Dewey smiled and picked up a glass. He glanced at Iverheart and Millar. Iverheart grabbed a glass.
“No, thank you,” said Millar, who looked ashen and remained seated.
Bolin poured wine into Dewey’s and Iverheart’s glasses, then into his own. He put the bottle down on the table. He raised his glass and looked at Dewey.
“To the United States of America,” Bolin said. “For saving my country.”
Bolin moved his glass against Dewey’s, then against Iverheart’s. He smiled, then threw the drink back in his mouth, downing the wine in one gulp.
“Thank you,” said Dewey as he drank the sweet-tasting wine.
They heard the faint rhythm of helicopter rotors, somewhere off in the distant sky.
“No, my friend, thank you,” said Bolin smiling.
Bolin poured refills, which they drank down quickly as the chopper grew louder. Turning, Dewey looked out the window at the darkening sky. The lights of the chopper were now visible.
“Come,” said Bolin. “I’ll walk you there myself.”
* * *
They followed Bolin down a long, cavernous hallway. At the end of the hallway, an armed soldier stood at the entrance to an open elevator. They rode the elevator up in silence. At the sixth floor, the top floor of the building, they got off. Bolin led Dewey and his team down a short hallway to a stairwell, which led to the roof.
At the edge of the helipad, the group watched the approaching chopper. From the vantage point atop Aiwan-e-Sadr, the chaos of the teeming, anger-fueled crowds was shocking. Sirens pealed from several locations. Gunfire was now steadier. Fires dotted the terrain in virtually every direction. The chant was no longer uniform, but the shouting was constant.
Thank God, Dewey thought to himself as he watched the chopper descend.
A stiff breeze had arrived, sweeping down from the hills, helping to cool the humid, muggy city.
A dark green Mil Mi-17 chopper approached from the east.
It circled twice overhead, then descended in a slow, bouncy hover toward the helipad. The chopper lurched as it came closer, buffeted by the crosswinds. It settled onto the yellow triangle of LED lights at the center of the helipad.
Ever so slightly, the rotors slowed.
Millar stepped forward as the chopper’s wheels touched down. He reached out to the rear door of the chopper. As he slid the door open, the loud crack of gunfire came from inside the chopper. Millar’s head abruptly kicked sideways; blood erupted from his head. He toppled backward to the helipad, dead.
Dewey reached for his shoulder holster. His hand caught the butt of his Colt just as someone grabbed his arms from behind.
“Look out!” Dewey screamed.
The next bullet tore into Iverheart’s arm as he lunged, trying to evade it. He ducked just as another bullet struck his throat. The killer inside the chopper kept firing. A third slug ripped straight into the bridge of Iverheart’s nose. The front of Iverheart’s head cratered. He was pummeled backward by the force of the bullets, falling into a growing pool of blood.
Dewey was lifted off his feet and thrown to the ground, his shoulder slamming to the helipad. He tried to move, but the soldiers gripped his arms tight. One of the soldiers knelt on his back, while another gripped his ankles. He felt flex-cuffs tightening around his wrists and ankles.
He turned his head toward the chopper.
The killer climbed from the chopper. He held a Glock in his right hand. He stepped toward Dewey, training the weapon on him. The killer was young, no more than twenty-five years old. He had short, spiky black hair and a sharp nose. Dewey registered the face; it jogged a memory. Then he felt a sharp kick to the head. He looked up to see Bolin standing over him. He kicked Dewey again, this time cracking a rib. Dewey felt nothing. For several seconds, the pain somehow pushed its way to a different part of his mind as the shock and horror of what had just happened washed over him in a numbing wave.
Then, he tasted the blood in his mouth, and the pain began.
“Stop!” barked the young Arab. “You’ll kill him.”
“Goodbye, Mr. Andreas,” said Bolin. He kicked him one last time, a blow to the stomach. Dewey groaned and coughed as blood filled his mouth, then vomit.
Bolin turned and walked toward the door to the buildings.
Four soldiers grabbed Dewey by his shackled arms and legs, hoisted him up, then carried him to the open door of the chopper. They threw him inside the chopper, feet first. He struggled to move his head. He looked across the roof to Bolin, whose back was turned as he walked away.
“Bolin,” Dewey said in a clotted voice, barely above a whisper.
Bolin kept walking.
“Bolin,” repeated Dewey, louder this time.
At the door, Bolin turned. He walked casually back to the chopper. He stood over Dewey, smiling down at him.
“What is it?” Bolin asked. “Do you need a Band-Aid?”
Blood coursed from Dewey’s mouth and nose as he struggled to focus his eyes.
“You better pray,” Dewey said, staring up at him.
“And what should I pray for, Mr. Andreas?” he asked, shaking his head, glancing at the faces of the soldiers who stood watching. “What should I pray for, Dewey?”
Dewey heard the rotors on the chopper accelerate. He felt a bounce as the first wheel lifted up from the ground.
“You better pray they kill me.”
66
AIWAN-E-SADR
Bolin stepped out of the elevator and walked past a pair of soldiers, who stood in silence. He walked to his office. Opening the door, he stepped inside.
Inside, el-Jaqonda stood at the window, staring out at Constitution Avenue.
“He’s on the chopper,” said Bolin.
“Shall we make the call, Mr. President?” asked el-Jaqonda.
Bolin walked to the desk and sat down. On the desk was a laptop computer, which he flipped open and turned on.
El-Jaqonda sat down in a chair in front of the desk. He hit the speakerphone button, then dialed. The phone started to ring.
“Yes,” said a man on the speaker.
“Good evening, Aswan,” said el-Jaqonda, leaning toward the phone. “It’s done. Andreas is on his way to Beirut.”
“Did he see his men die?” Fortuna asked. “Did he watch them suffer?”
“Yes,” said Bolin. “They died in front of him, just as you requested.”
“Good. Very good, President Bolin.”
Bolin started typing into the keyboard. The screen flashed to the Bank of Zurich customer portal. Bolin logged in to his account.
“Now it’s your turn to act,” said Bolin, leaning into the phone. “Until the money is wired into the account, the plane doesn’t leave Rawalpindi.”
“Are you logged in?” asked Fortuna.
“Yes,” said Bolin. He glanced at el-Jaqonda, sitting in the chair in front of him, sweating and overweight.
The Funds on Deposit line of Bolin’s Bank of Zurich account flashed. The number jumped in length. Bolin smiled, temporarily shocked by the amount now in his account. He knew the amount. When the man had offered the obscene amount of money for Andreas, he hadn’t even negotiated. It was more than he would ever need.
Still, seeing it now before his eyes, the numbers laid out in a line, somehow it still sent a shock through him: $250,000,000.00.
Bolin sat in silence, staring at the screen.
“Well?” asked Fortuna.
“Our business is done,” said Bolin, flipping the laptop closed. “Thank you, Mr. Fortuna. The plane will leave Rawalpindi when we get off the phone. Flight time to Beirut will be approximately six hours. Enjoy your new toy.”
Bolin leaned forward and hit the speakerphone.
In front of him, el-Jaqonda sat back in the chair. He smiled nervously.
“Field Marshal Bolin,” said el-Jaqonda. “I trust this has been a fruitful transaction.”
Bolin looked at el-Jaqonda in silence, a blank look on his face.
“Would now be a good time to discuss our arrangement?” continued el-Jaqonda.
“Arrangement?” asked Bolin, grinning.
“My share of the transaction,” said el-Jaqonda.
Bolin leaned back in his chair. He folded his hands together across his chest and looked at el-Jaqonda. He had never met el-Jaqonda, the deputy defense minister, though he had heard of him. A political appointee. Bolin viewed el-Jaqonda, and others like him, as detritus, leeches who traveled for free on the backs of people like him, who took the actual risks. He stared at el-Jaqonda with a wide, friendly grin on his face, a smile that masked the contempt he felt for the rotund man in front of him; Khan’s deputy, who had helped drag Pakistan into the mess it was in.
“And what were you thinking?” asked Bolin.
“Since you asked, sir,” said el-Jaqonda. “I believe splitting it down the middle would be a reasonable approach. After all, while you delivered the goods, I delivered the money, as it were.”
El-Jaqonda smiled at Bolin.
“Fifty-fifty?” asked Bolin, contemplating the offer. “Are you sure you could survive on that much?”
“Of course I could survive, Field Marshal,” said el-Jaqonda, shifting in his seat. “But, of course, perhaps less. What if we split it more like sixty-forty? Or even just one quarter? Yes, that’s it. One quarter is just fine, sir.”
“One quarter?” asked Bolin. “Why, I would be too worried about you, Khalid. How could any man survive on such a pittance? A fat fuck like you needs money for food. What if I give you two hundred million? That seems better for me. I would be worried about you with anything less. Or better yet, why don’t you just take the entire thing?”
Bolin laughed contemptuously.
El-Jaqonda’s happy demeanor slipped away. His smile disappeared. He blinked nervously and beads of perspiration appeared on his forehead.
“Field Marshal—”
“President,” said Bolin harshly.
Bolin casually
reached to his waist and removed his weapon, a Smith & Wesson .45 caliber handgun. He raised it in the air and aimed it at el-Jaqonda.
“Mr. President,” said el-Jaqonda, holding his hands up. “I will go. I need none of the money. I was being greedy. I’m sorry.”
Bolin fired the weapon. The gun made a loud thunderclap in the tall-ceilinged office. The slug entered el-Jaqonda’s throat at the larynx. He reached his hand up to his neck in the same moment the force of the shot threw him off balance, the chair leaned sideways, and he fell backward.
Bolin stood and stared down at el-Jaqonda whose hands gripped his throat. Blood coursed over el-Jaqonda’s fat fingers. Through a clotted, blood-filled throat, el-Jaqonda tried to speak from the ground.
The sound of footsteps came from the hallway, then a knock at the door.
Bolin aimed the gun at el-Jaqonda. He pulled the trigger and fired another round that ripped into el-Jaqonda’s chest. He died instantly.
The door opened. A young soldier entered. Seeing el-Jaqonda on the ground, the soldier paused, then looked at Bolin.
“Call the janitorial department,” said Bolin. “Then get back to your watch.”
67
FORTUNA ESTATE
BROUMANA, LEBANON
Fortuna placed the phone back on the receiver. He stood up. A smile creased his lips. He shook his head in disbelief.
Fortuna walked out of the room that served as his office, a small room whose walls were lined with bookshelves. He went to the kitchen. Behind an island at the center of the room, beneath a line of copper pots that hung from an iron rack, stood Candela. She was tall and stunning. Her dark hair lay halfway down her back and shimmered like black leather. She stood at the marble counter, quietly grating a piece of ginger into a silver bowl.
On the other side of the kitchen was a long harvest table. Five men sat around it, smoking cigarettes and talking.
Fortuna walked to the table.
“It’s done,” said Fortuna. “Andreas is in the air. The plane will land in six hours.”