by Ben Coes
The top floor—the ninth—was shut off to all except for a handful of men. This was the one floor that looked at least somewhat habitable. Like the eighth floor, a large section had been cleared of its walls, only it had been done by a local Algerian carpenter. A steel wall separated that private area from the rest of the floor, which sat empty. The private area occupied the part of the floor closest to the Mediterranean and could be entered only through a single armored door that had an electronic security code as well as two gunmen positioned outside at all times.
Inside the private, walled-off section was a loftlike space that included a luxurious bedroom, a kitchen and dining room, and a large open living room with bold views of the ocean in every direction. On the interior wall, two large poster-size photographs were taped. Both showed the same man. In one of the photos, a color photo, the man had thick, unruly brown hair, a wide, muscular face covered in a thick beard and mustache, and wore a dark blazer and button-down shirt, but no tie. The other photo was black and white and much older. It showed the same man. His hair was cut short and he was clean shaven. He wore a dark T-shirt and a tactical weapons vest, a patch of the American flag visible on the front of the vest. Beneath the man’s eyes were two thick stripes of eye black. In his right hand, he clutched an assault rifle, pointed up at the sky. This photo captured the look in the man’s eyes as he stared at the camera. It was a cold look, menacing, even threatening, as if he was preparing to swing the rifle down and fire. The word ANDREAS was handwritten across the photo.
It was noon on a clear day. The sun made the sea sparkle in luxurious black, light blue, white, and silver refractions, undulating with the breeze and the currents.
Asleep in the middle of the king-size bed was a naked man. His legs and body were muscled like an athlete’s. His hair was medium length, black, and stylish. Like his father, like his younger brother, he was remarkably good-looking, a gift from two famously attractive parents, both now dead.
On each side of him, also asleep, and also naked, were women. On the left was a black woman who was lying on her stomach, her large, voluptuous posterior beneath the man’s hand. On the right was an Algerian woman with light skin, a startling beauty with long black hair cut in bangs across the top of her eyebrows, with large breasts and her legs draped over the man’s.
On a glass table next to the bed was a humongous pile of cocaine, like a half-eaten birthday cake.
The black woman stirred, turned her head, and looked at the man. She reached her hand out and lightly rubbed his cheek.
“Veux-tu que je te fasse du café, Nebuchar?” she said.
Do you want me to make you coffee, Nebuchar?
Fortuna opened his eyes. He stared at her for several moments but said nothing.
* * *
Nebuchar Fortuna never wanted to fight the war in which his brother and father had died fighting. Alexander, his younger brother, was the second most notorious terrorist in modern history, behind Osama bin Laden. Alexander had been embedded inside the United States as a young boy, raised by a couple in Maryland and secretly indoctrinated from the youngest age into jihad. He’d gone to Princeton and then entered the world of finance, rising to its pinnacles and amassing great wealth along the way, all the while biding his time, planning, and ultimately unleashing the greatest single attack on American soil since 9/11 through a carefully designed network of sleeper cells. Yet most of Alexander’s plot was stopped before it truly hit—stopped by one man, a disgraced former Delta named Dewey Andreas, who killed Nebuchar’s brother on a snowy evening at Alexander’s seaside mansion in East Hampton.
Nebuchar’s father, Aswan, was despondent when Alexander was killed. Aswan vowed revenge, spending millions in order to find and kill the man who killed his son. Aswan’s men scoured the earth for Andreas, finding him in a remote town in Australia, where, one night, a team of highly trained mercenaries ambushed Andreas in a crowded bar, unleashing a bloody and protracted attack. But Andreas proved yet again that he was a formidable opponent, killing every member of Aswan Fortuna’s team but one, then escaping. This bitter failure only made Aswan angrier, and after Andreas led a coup in Pakistan, Aswan bribed the newly installed Pakistani president into handing Andreas over. Andreas was tied up and thrown into a cargo plane bound for Beirut, where Aswan’s men were waiting. This time, it was a brigade of Israeli Special Forces soldiers from Shayetet 13 who denied Aswan the satisfaction of avenging his son, saving Andreas from certain death. A few months later, Andreas found Aswan at his mountaintop lair above Beirut and shot him in cold blood.
For Nebuchar, the hard, tortured history of his father and brother was something he tried to forget, to ignore, to leave behind. He had inherited more than $3 billion after his father died, and he spent years living a life of luxury and hedonism, fueled by alcohol and cocaine, women and fast cars. Then, one day, Nebuchar awoke with a start and knew that everything had changed. Like a fever, the feeling swept through his insides and left him breathless and dizzy. He would outdo his brother. He would inflict more damage on the west than even Alexander had.
And someday, Nebuchar knew, he would outdo his father as well. He would be the one to avenge the deaths that destroyed the Fortuna family. He would be the one to at long last kill Dewey Andreas.
Nebuchar had sold most of his belongings. The mansions, chalets, and apartments he’d given to his younger sister, Maddie, without any explanation. He’d made contact with AQAP through an intermediary, ultimately spending more than a month with Al Qaeda’s leadership council in southern Yemen. Nebuchar made his commitment. He would help in the effort to hurt the West, rooting them out of the Middle East, as well as aid in the gradual overtake of Europe. But he would answer to no one. If he ever got tired of it, he could walk away.
Nebuchar hadn’t gotten tired of it. Instead, he grew hungrier, angrier, and frighteningly more effective. He turned Algiers into a key thoroughfare, pouring millions into bombs, recruitment, and the training of fighters. He hated Algiers. He missed Beirut. He missed his life of luxury. But he knew he could never go back, not now. What started as a calling thrust upon him by his father and brother—a cause at one time he disagreed with and scoffed at—had turned into his very lifeblood. He knew his father had loved Alexander more than him. He knew Alexander was smarter than him. When they were alive, and even in the years immediately following their deaths, he hated them both. But at some point, time healed Nebuchar’s wounds. The fire of hatred was transformed into emptiness, loss, then love. He understood that the reason he shunned them so and fought against his true calling was precisely because of how much he did still love them.
In turn, that love fueled the bitter hatred that now guided his actions against the West. And within that hatred was the image of Dewey Andreas.
* * *
A floor below Nebuchar, a twenty-two-year-old Egyptian named Hosni stared at his computer screen, his mouth growing wide. His eyes scanned back and forth across the screen several times.
Hosni looked around the room. Mustafah and Jerome weren’t there. He hit Print and quickly pulled off the paper as it finished. He ran up the stairs to the top floor. He charged along the empty floor until he came to the pair of gunmen standing outside the entrance to Fortuna’s apartment. Without even acknowledging them, Hosni entered the six-digit security code.
“Nebuchar!” he barked as he entered, before he had even noticed Fortuna and the two women. “Nebuchar, wake up!”
It took Nebuchar a few seconds to open his eyes and then process what was going on. When he finally did, he reached beneath his pillow and pulled out a Glock G19 semiautomatic handgun, then whipped it around, training it on Hosni.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Hosni,” he groaned.
“It’s important!”
Fortuna stared angrily at Hosni. He dropped the gun and put his hand to his face, rubbing his eyes. He looked at the Algerian woman next to him, then at the black woman.
“Get out,” he ordered. “Now!”
&
nbsp; The two women slunk from the bed, grabbing clothing—a shoe here, panties there, a shirt, another shoe—as they ran toward the door.
Nebuchar climbed out of bed, doing nothing to hide his naked body from Hosni. He stepped to a bureau and pulled out a pair of jeans and slipped them on. On top of the dresser was a pack of cigarettes. He pulled one out and grabbed for a lighter. He took a long puff and finally turned to Hosni.
“What do you want?”
Nebuchar leaned forward and dipped his right index finger in the pile of cocaine on the table, brought it to his right nostril, and snorted it. He repeated the act with his left.
“Look, Nebuchar!” said Hosni, stepping closer to Fortuna, his hand extending a piece of paper. “It was just released by INTERPOL.”
Fortuna stared at it for several seconds, then leaned down and snorted another scoop of white powder.
He stared at the photo in the middle of the sheet of paper.
“When did this come out?”
“Five minutes ago.”
INTERPOL Ω
DIFFUSION NOTICE
—WANTED—
ANDREAS, DEWEY
ARREST WARRANT: GREEN CODE 1
ISSUING AUTHORITY: DGSI/FRANCE (UU8-8)
CIRC. 863-23055G
CITIZENSHIP:USA
WHEREABOUTS: FRANCE/EU
FLASH SUMMARY (18:09:11 GST): ANDREAS is primary suspect in the murder of United States Secretary of State Tim Lindsay and two other U.S. State Department employees. ANDREAS was apprehended following commission of the crime and brought into DGSI subsection 4 (Paris 08W-4). ANDREAS escaped DGSI facility and is at large and believed to be in France. ANDREAS should be considered armed and extremely dangerous.
DO NOT ATTEMPT TO APPROACH ANDREAS ALONE.
If ANDREAS is sighted, local and federal law enforcement should be called immediately followed by INTERPOL central station: 72-331-1-786-8690.
Fortuna handed the piece of paper back to Hosni. A malevolent smile spread across his face. He placed his hands on the youth’s shoulders, grinning from ear to ear in glee. Tentatively, Hosni smiled. Then Fortuna slapped him viciously across the face, a sadistic look on his face.
“Excellent work,” said Fortuna, flicking his lit cigarette casually onto the floor.
“What was that for?” yelped Hosni.
“That was my way of saying, thank you,” said Fortuna. “Go get Jerome and Mustafah. There is work to be done.”
“What do you mean?” said Hosni.
“Andreas is on the run. He’s a flushed bird, out in the open. He’s a wanted man. This is our opportunity to kill the man who killed my father and my brother. Now go. Go!”
50
INDIAN PURCHASE FARM
POOLESVILLE, MARYLAND
The large, low-ceilinged master bedroom was cozy and elegant, with bookshelves, exposed wooden beams, and a large bed. A fire burned warmly across from the bed, casting the room in a diffuse orange hue. Above the mantel was a large oil painting of a young girl no more than ten.
Bruner moved slowly, his mind consumed with Flaherty’s words.
They found Order Six.
It was what started it all, and yet he hadn’t heard the words in so long. Perhaps mistakenly, Bruner had thought he would never have to hear the words again. He knew the files were gone, that there was no way for anyone to know what Order 6 was, and so his mood had nothing to do with the fear of being caught. The truth was, getting caught was the farthest thing from his mind. No, what ailed him this night was the memory. The thought of what had driven him to do what he was now just days, just hours, from finally accomplishing.
Don’t think about it. Not now.
He looked at his wife, Janie, who was asleep. He glanced at the fire, making sure it was under control enough for him to go to sleep. Then, against his better judgment, Bruner looked again at the painting of his daughter. He tried to look away, yet the girl’s eyes seemed to hold his attention.
His wife, who he thought asleep, suddenly spoke.
“Are you all right, Charles?”
Bruner’s hands were trembling. He looked at his wife and then at the painting. His face contorted into a pained, infinitely sad look. Tears started to fall down his cheeks.
“Oh, Charles,” she said calmly, reaching for him.
But he didn’t hear her words. Instead, his thoughts were on the painting and the girl. He stumbled, reaching for the corner of the bed as the vision came on, holding the wooden post so that he wouldn’t fall to the ground.
“No,” he cried as he fell to the bed, a low, animal sobbing coming from deep within as the memory took him over.
He pictured Molly in that last moment. He remembered her hand as he let it go, filled with money for the gelato. The pain took him over as if he were back there that day, that terrible day in Madrid. Like a movie, the final moments of his daughter’s life played and replayed again and again until finally he passed into a state of eerie calm.
* * *
Bruner didn’t know how many hours had passed when he awoke. The fire was almost out. Janie was asleep. He forced himself up from the bed. He went to the painting, lifting it from its hook. He placed it against the wall.
The painting had covered a safe. Bruner turned the dial several times, then pulled down the steel latch.
The bottom half of the safe was filled with neat stacks of hundred-dollar bills. On a shelf above the cash was a wall of solid gold bricks.
Stashed atop the gold was an old manila folder. With trembling hands, Bruner reached for it. He looked at the small label affixed to the folder:
* * *
DSAT:
ORDER 6
VXW-OPS:
SB 6609-H
NEVSTUP:
167.8 A
TSIL: 699/T
* * *
Bruner put another log on the fire. He sat down in an armchair next to the painting of his daughter. He slowly opened the folder, as if he were back there that day, that fateful day when he understood what he had to do in order to save the world.
It was 3 A.M. when Bruner finally stopped staring at the papers, stopped remembering Madrid and William Casey, stopped feeling the clutches of the past. Slowly, he arose and took the folder, with the document inside, and set it in the fireplace. A few moments later, the corner of the folder started smoking and then caught fire, burning brightly as Bruner watched from above.
51
CENTRAL BUS AND RAIL TERMINAL
MARSEILLE, FRANCE
Romy climbed off the bus, carrying only what was in her pockets, which was €455 and a pack of gum—the only thing she’d eaten in twenty-four hours.
In the crowded terminal, she found the women’s room. An older woman was washing her hands. Romy went to the farthest stall and shut the door. She didn’t sit down, but rather stood, eyes shut. She started sobbing. She put her arms across her chest as she cried for several minutes, as if holding herself. She tried to push away the thoughts of what she’d done, the sight of the two dead orderlies covered in blood, Dr. Courtemanche clutching his chest, blood spilling from his mouth and nose. She let her tears blanket her in some way, protect her, wash her mind of the terrible memories. Romy knew she would never be the same again, that she could never forgive herself, even though all she wanted to do was warn an unsuspecting world of the monsters that were coming. That were here already.
She longed, at this lonely moment, for a memory somewhere in the recesses of her mind, any memory, of anything, as long as it was from before the trauma that caused her amnesia. All Romy had was the memory of Kyrie as he lifted her from the ground. She’d long ago stopped asking herself where she was that first day of her new life, stopped trying to see the pictures on the walls, the furniture. It was now just a hollow abyss, but her tears made her feel as if there had been a day, long ago, before it all. When she was happy, when she was kind, when there was someone there to hold her the way she held herself in that bathroom stall, soothing her and assuring her, “It
’s going to be all right.”
When she finally left the stall, she went to the sink and looked at her reflection in the mirror. Her head had only a thin, patchy layer of hair and it looked shocking and strange. But the lack of hair also made pure the striking beauty of her face, her sharp, tanned nose, her high cheekbones, and her dark eyes. For several seconds she didn’t recognize herself, and though she knew that was the point, her eyes welled up again. But she didn’t cry. Instead, she looked into her own eyes, searching for the person who was in there, looking for that person to somehow say something or do something.
“It’s going to be all right,” she whispered to her reflection.
She splashed water on her face to clean away the tears.
* * *
An icon on Kopitar’s laptop started blinking. He double-clicked it. His screen opened into a map. A red circle flashed in the middle of the screen. The map zoomed in closer and closer until he saw the name of the city, then the name of the street.
A quizzical look was on Kopitar’s face. The signal was being emitted by the credit card Romy had taken from Courtemanche. He was dumbfounded for two reasons. First, because she hadn’t thrown it away. Second, because it was telling him where she was, even though she hadn’t used it.
“Stupid woman.”
Credit cards emit certain low-frequency electronic signals at all times, but only the credit card companies themselves have the ability to look at the signals. By law, they were required to keep this ability turned off. Someone—probably French law enforcement—had placed some sort of legal order on the card company itself, thus turning on the card’s location.