Coup D'Etat (26 page)

“So it’s serious.”

“Yes,” she said. “But will you promise me something?”

“What?”

“Promise you’ll come back alive.”

Dewey was silent.

“Dewey, promise me. I know it’s just words. Please promise me you’ll come back alive.”

“I promise.”

*   *   *

After landing at RAAF Base Townsville, Dewey was shown the way to a bathroom, where he cleaned up the dried blood on his arms, face, and chin. He was given a fresh T-shirt, then was escorted to an empty office. He shut the door, then went to the phone and picked up the receiver.

“Hold for NSA Tanzer.”

A moment later, the phone beeped.

“Hi, Dewey,” said Jessica. “I’ve got Hector Calibrisi and Bill Polk on the line. You know Hector; Bill is the deputy director of National Clandestine Service and runs CIA paramilitary.”

“It sounds like you’ve had a rough night,” said Calibrisi. “We just read the first AFP report. You stacked up some body count.”

“Let’s cut the bullshit,” said Dewey. “What do you guys want?”

“We need your help,” said Calibrisi.

“I told you all I was out. I said that more than a year ago.”

“Can we at least take you through the situation we have on our hands?”

Dewey sat down in a beat-up leather desk chair. He put his boots up on the steel desk.

“Sure, let’s hear it,” he said.

“Have you followed the news over the past few days?” asked Calibrisi.

“No,” said Dewey.

“Pakistan dropped a nuclear bomb on a remote mining town in India,” said Calibrisi.

“I did hear that. El-Khayab. How many people were killed?”

“More than eight thousand,” said Jessica.

“India now believes it must counterstrike,” said Calibrisi. “We just left New Delhi. The Indians intend to drop most if not all of their nuclear weapons stockpile on Pakistan.”

“I can’t say I blame them.”

“The problem is, if India moves ahead with this attack, we believe China will seek to assert itself,” said Calibrisi. “Partly as a response to the destruction of a key ally, partly because they covet the natural resources in northern India. If that happens, America
will
defend India. But our options are severely limited. We could try to deter China with ground troops, but we’re already spread thin in Iraq and Afghanistan. That leaves us with only one option: deterence with tactical nuclear weapons.”

“If we allow China to walk into India, our strategic security alliances across the globe will be altered dramatically,” said Jessica. “Our allies would quite simply no longer trust us. China will become the ascendant superpower. In places like Saudi Arabia, this will have real, material impact on the U.S.”

“And, of course, if we use nuclear weapons—or even the threat of them—to keep China out of India, all bets are off,” said Calibrisi. “Things could spiral out of control very, very quickly.”

“Have you attempted to explain this to the Indian government?” asked Dewey.

“We spent an hour doing just that,” said Jessica. “A nuclear bomb was just dropped on one of their towns. They understandably don’t care what we or anyone else thinks at this moment. They’re in shock and they believe they’re at grave risk of further attack.”

“New Delhi believes if they don’t hit back, they run the real risk Pakistan strikes again or China invades anyway,” said Calibrisi. “If India is seen as a weak sister, they’re vulnerable.”

“If India strikes back, it could be a matter of hours before we’re at war with China,” said Jessica.

Dewey sat back in the leather chair and closed his eyes.

He remembered standing in the hotel room in Cuba more than a year ago, staring out the window at downtown Havana, when they’d asked him to come back to America to help stop the terrorists who had launched the attack on U.S. soil. He had refused to help. And despite the fact that he ended up returning and helping to stop Alexander Fortuna, he still felt shame for saying no when they first asked him. He opened his eyes and looked at the ceiling beams and the fluorescent lights of the office at the RAAF air base.

“What do you need from me?” asked Dewey.

“We asked New Delhi to delay their counterstrike,” said Calibrisi. “New Delhi has given us two days to remove Omar El-Khayab from power. That was six hours ago.”

“
Two days?
” asked Dewey, incredulous. “That’s not a lot of time.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Have you designed the OP?”

“We’re working on that right now,” said Polk.

“Who’s running the OP?” asked Dewey.

“The concept was that it would be you,” said Calibrisi.

Dewey was silent. He’d known the answer before he even asked the question. He ran his thumb along his upper lip, which was slightly swollen from the terrorist’s punch.

“I’m flattered,” said Dewey finally. “But you need some young turks. Delta, SOG, SEAL. That’s what you need. I’m getting old.”

“You’re the one we want on this,” said Calibrisi. “As for being too old, tell that to the dead Hezbollah up the road there in Cooktown.”

“The elements are simple,” said Polk. “Infiltrate with a tight kill team. Access the one who can deliver the military leadership and infrastructure. Then remove the cancer.”

“Let some younger guys have a turn, Hector. That’s how they learn.”

“I hear you, but this isn’t an educational opportunity,” said Calibrisi. “The stakes are too high. If Omar El-Khayab isn’t removed in forty-two hours, the consequences are unimaginable.”

“We need a veteran in there who will react in-theater to what’s going to be a fluid, raw, and highly lethal operation,” said Polk.

“You’re not a very good salesman.”

“I’m not trying to sell you. We have a crisis and you’re the best solution.”

Dewey looked down at his leather boots. The left one was covered in dried blood, which he noticed for the first time.

“I’m expendable,” said Dewey. “Why don’t you just say it. If they catch me, you have deniability.”

“That’s not why we want you,” said Calibrisi. “We can get deniability in other ways if that’s what we wanted. Contractors. Even Special Operations Group can go in sanitized. But that’s not what we want. We want a highly talented soldier and a patriot, in that order. I know you, Dewey. I saw what you did after Capitana. We all did. You’re a unique young man, whether you want to admit or not. Your country needs you.”

Dewey’s mind raced as he listened to the voices coming over the phone. Calibrisi had a warm, deep voice, with a slightly Hispanic accent. He liked Calibrisi. He trusted him. After Dewey killed Alexander Fortuna, it was Calibrisi who asked him to come and work at Langley. Then, when Dewey was leaving for Australia, Calibrisi had given him covert identification, which he’d never used. But still, he remembered the gesture.

“There’s something we didn’t tell you about Omar El-Khayab,” said Calibrisi. “Something you should know.”

“What?”

“El-Khayab was created by Aswan Fortuna,” said Calibrisi. “Plucked him out of obscurity, funded his rise in Pakistani politics, and paid for his presidential campaign. The same money that paid for the bullets that killed your friend Talbot tonight got Omar El-Khayab elected president of Pakistan.”

Dewey stared at the fingers on his right hand, scratching a small flake of dried blood from the cuticle of his ring finger. Just the word—Fortuna—made his adrenaline spike. Dewey eyed the worn patina on the butt of his M1911. After a long, pregnant pause, he moved his right boot from the desk down to the ground, then his left. He stood up from the big leather chair. He glanced around the large, empty office, at the walls covered in framed photographs of old Australian warplanes. He ran his fingers through his long, sweaty hair. He picked up the .45 caliber gun from the desk and tucked it into his belt. A smile slowly appeared on his face.

“I’ll do it. But there’s one condition.”

“What is it?” asked Calibrisi.

“After it’s all over, if I survive, you give me Aswan Fortuna’s location and you let me put a bullet in his head.”

“You got it,” Calibrisi shot back.

Dewey hung up. He looked at his watch.
Forty-two hours
. He exited the office, walked down a dark corridor, then out onto the tarmac, still black under the night sky. He saw an F-111 in the distance, its lights on, the canopy open. “Aardvarks” they called them back home, but here they nicknamed them “pigs.” He walked quickly to the side of the plane and climbed up the air stairs.

At the top of the stairs, Dewey looked at the young Aussie pilot and nodded.

“You Andreas?” the pilot asked.

“Yeah,” said Dewey. “I assume you know how to fly this fucking thing?”

The pilot laughed as Dewey climbed into the second seat and the canopy glass descended, the wheels bounced forward and the fearsome engines on the back of the attack jet roared to life.

34

ROUTE 81

CAIRNS, AUSTRALIA

Youssef had walked less than a half mile when the first police cruiser came barreling down the mine road. He saw its lights in the far distance. By the time it approached where he was, Youssef was lying facedown in the dirt thirty feet off the road. He waited as the police car sped by, then stood up and continued walking down the road toward Route 81. Two more times, Youssef was forced to hide. After twenty minutes of walking, he reached the end of the mine road and went right on Route 81, walking along the dirt apron ten yards off the road, ducking whenever a car approached from either direction.

His arm hurt badly, but he didn’t think about it. Youssef had been trained in pain attenuation. He knew he was lucky to be alive. He thought only of getting to Brisbane. He also thought about Dewey Andreas, picturing the look on the American’s face as he drove the car just behind the BMW. There was no fear in the man’s eyes, no emotion, just steel determination. Youssef would never forget the look.

Youssef walked south along Route 81 for more than an hour. Then he stopped. He waited just off the road, crouched, out of sight, as several cars passed by. When, in the distance, he saw the lights of a semi, he stepped toward the road and held his thumb out. The first eighteen-wheeler passed him without slowing down, as did the second and third. In between trucks, he would crouch out of sight, lest one of the cars traveling on Route 81 turned out to be a police car. The fourth semi slowed down and stopped to pick him up.

“Where ya headed?” asked the driver as Youssef climbed into the cab.

“Cairns.”

“Hop in,” said the bearded, overweight truck driver, eyeing Youssef’s leather coat and bottle-blond, spiky hair. “You a surfer?”

“Yes,” said Youssef. “Thanks for stopping.”

Youssef closed the door and the truck rolled forward, south on 81, toward Cairns.

*   *   *

They drove for two hours. The radio played country music and they talked only briefly, Youssef asking the driver about what he was carrying, where he was from, and other polite small talk, all of it forgotten almost as soon as the words came out of the burly driver’s mouth. When they came to a traffic light near Lake Mitchell, just north of Cairns, Youssef took his Arcus 98 DA 9mm handgun out of the pocket of the leather coat and fired a single round into the side of the truck driver’s head.

Youssef pulled the dead driver toward the passenger side of the cab, then climbed over him. Taking off the leather coat, he inspected the bullet wound in his arm. He was in pain, but it was tolerable. The bleeding had stopped. Examining the wound for a few moments, he found a hole at the back of the biceps where the slug had exited.

With his right boot, Youssef pushed the corpse down in front of the passenger seat. When the light changed back to green, he shifted the semi into first gear and started to drive toward Brisbane.

35

QANNABET BROUMANA ROAD

BROUMANA, LEBANON

Nebuchar Fortuna drove his bright orange Lamborghini Gallardo LP 550-2 “Valentino Balboni” through the winding hills above downtown Beirut taking the hitchbacks at speeds that caused the tires on the €180,000 sports car to squeal. He took a right down an unmarked road and was soon at a heavily fortified set of iron gates. He honked the horn twice. After an armed guard identified him, he drove through the gates. He parked in the circular driveway in front of a rambling villa, slammed the car door behind him, and went inside.

Gathered in the living room, on sectional sofas in a square, two men sat.

“What is it?” asked a small, bald man in the middle of the sofas, dressed in khakis and a green short-sleeve button-down shirt.

“None of your affair, Pasa,” said Nebuchar. “I must speak with you alone, Father.”

“He’s my guest,” said Aswan Fortuna. “Speak. Nobody’s leaving.”

“Dewey Andreas is alive.”

“So what’s new?” asked Pasa. “The son who couldn’t shoot straight.”

“Shut up,” said Nebuchar, not even looking at Pasa. “My father may abuse me. You may not unless you would like to taste blood in your mouth.”

“Big threats,” said Pasa.

“Calm down!” barked Aswan. “Both of you. What happened?”

“We finally found him. They saw him at a bar and moved on him. But somehow he killed most of the cell.”

“How?” whispered Aswan, incredulous. “How could this happen?”

He sat back, staring icily at Nebuchar.

“You manage to fuck up everything,” said Pasa from the sofa.

“It was your men, Pasa, you fucking Hezbollah midget,” said Nebuchar, turning to his father. “Half of the cell Pasa here delivered from Bekaa. So we can start pointing fingers or we can just figure out what to do next.”

“What to do next? They’re all dead! The cell is dead and you’re asking what to do next?”

“They’re not all dead. Youssef survived.”

“What would you do next?” asked Pasa.

“Build another team. A clean team. Send them back to Australia to dig for information. This is a long-term struggle, and we can’t give up.”

“Another team?” said Aswan, as bitter laughter erupted from his mouth. He sat back and ran both hands through his long, silvery hair. His tan shirt was unbuttoned, and he placed his hands nonchalantly across his chest.