Coup D'Etat (41 page)

“No,” said Dewey. “This looks like it’s going to be painless.”

Dewey turned, walked to the next vehicle, where Millar sat. Dewey glanced at his neck, where a trickle of blood was moving in a fresh path south toward a shirt that was increasingly red and wet. Millar’s face looked pale and ashen.

“How you feeling?” asked Dewey.

“Fine,” said Millar.

“Come on,” said Dewey. “I might need you to translate.”

Millar climbed out of the Humvee. Dewey and he walked up the steps, twenty feet behind Bolin and Martu.

“So this is a coup,” said Millar quietly. “Do they always go this smoothly?”

“No,” said Dewey.

At the top of the steps was a set of bright red doors, two stories tall, with ornate gold ornament along the frame. Two more soldiers, UZIs out, stood outside the door. They stared at Dewey and Millar as they followed Bolin and Martu inside.

Bolin glanced back at Dewey; Dewey saw a trace of nervousness in Bolin’s eyes.

They walked down a long, high-ceilinged corridor with a floor of gleaming black-and-white marble. They passed door after door, all of which were shut. Ahead, to the right, was an open door. Dewey glanced inside as they moved past the door.

“Cabinet room,” said Millar.

Inside, the room was half filled, government officials in suits, seated around the table, talking. At the end of the table, one of the officials turned, spied Dewey, turned away, then did a double take as Dewey passed.

“Colonel,” Dewey said after walking a few more feet.

“Yes?” asked Martu.

“You need to lock down the cabinet room.”

“Most of them will be supportive.”

“Get some men in there and shut the door,” said Dewey. “Tell them Field Marshal Bolin will be in to speak with them within the hour. Confiscate cell phones.”

Bolin nodded to Martu, who took out his cell phone and spoke rapidly before hanging up.

At the end of the corridor, a stairwell led right. On the walls, large oil portraits of past Pakistani leaders. They moved past windows that overlooked Constitution Avenue, swarming with hundreds of thousands of people.

Dewey registered the huge crowd from above. It was overwhelming. The large square was packed, along with the roads leading to the square. People waved signs and flags. The crowds spread out as far as you could see, in every direction. The chant wouldn’t stop.

“
Death to India! Death to India!
”

He glanced at Millar.

“That’s not good,” said Dewey quietly as they ascended.

“Why?”

“There are certain things that can’t be controlled,” whispered Dewey. “Large angry crowds are at the top of the list.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying we need to remove this guy then get the hell out of Dodge before things spiral out of control.”

They reached the top of the stairs. Bolin and Martu were ahead, out of earshot.

“What about India?” asked Millar.

Dewey looked at his watch.

“We have fifteen minutes. Once El-Khayab is gone, India will bring home its nukes. But I wouldn’t want to be a pasty-skinned American when those crazy fuckheads”—he nodded to the window—“find out their messiah is gone.”

Millar stared at Dewey, a hint of concern on his face. Dewey looked away and kept walking up the stairs.

At the top step, Bolin and Martu awaited. The group moved down the corridor toward a set of doors, outside of which stood two more soldiers. They saluted Bolin and Martu as they approached.

Bolin, Martu, Millar, and Dewey stood outside the door for a brief moment.

One of the soldiers placed his hand on the large brass doorknob, then pulled the door open.

*   *   *

El-Khayab’s office was enormous, cavernous and ornate, light-filled. Closer to the door was a large sitting space with two long bright red couches facing each other and a table between them. Along the far walls, windows ten feet high looked out on the capital district.

At the far end of the office was a long green marble table. In front of the table was a tall, middle-aged man in a tan suit, with neatly combed black hair whom Dewey recognized immediately: the father of Pakistan’s nuclear program, Osama Khan.

From behind Bolin’s hulking frame, Dewey’s eyes flashed to the window where a tall man in an immaculate white bisht stood. He recognized him from the photographs. Omar El-Khayab.

El-Khayab’s long gray beard spread down across his chest. His glasses were off and even from across the room, the hideous scars were visible.

Behind Khan another man stood, this one in a dark blue bisht. This was El-Khayab’s brother, Atta.

When the door opened, Khan turned and stood.

“Field Marshal Bolin,” said Khan from across the room. “Come in, join us.”

Bolin crossed the room. The chants from the square seemed to grow louder as he crossed the soft, ornate carpet underfoot.

Martu stayed at his side, a foot behind him.

“Field Marshal Bolin,” said El-Khayab. “Thank you for coming all this way.”

Khan’s eyes drifted past the approaching Bolin, past Martu, then found Dewey and Millar.

Khan moved a step to his left, as if in disbelief. His arm lifted. Khan pointed a finger at Dewey.

“Americans,” said Khan. “What’s going on?”

“It’s over, my friend,” said Bolin.

“What is this?” shouted Khan. “President El-Khayab,
Bolin is a traitor!
He is accompanied by Americans. CIA!”

Dewey said nothing.

“Pakistan is taking back its government today,” said Bolin forcefully. He glanced at Khan, then addressed El-Khayab. “Omar El-Khayab, you have brought Pakistan to the brink of self-destruction.”

“
America
is
stealing
our government!” yelled Khan, stepping toward Bolin.

“America is our friend. Mr. Andreas helped to save our country.”

“You’ll pay for this, Bolin!”

“You’ve endangered the lives of every man, woman, and child in Pakistan,” barked Bolin, outshouting Khan.

Khan reached to a holster at his waist.

Dewey pulled his Colt from his shoulder holster in one fluid motion, then pulled the trigger. A slug tore into Khan’s forehead and he was knocked backward as if kicked by a horse.

Dewey stepped forward, took aim again, and fired. The bullet cut a gumdrop-sized hole through Khan’s chest.

Bolin and Martu looked at Dewey, momentarily taken aback by what he had just done.

“I do have one question for you, Field Marshal Bolin,” said Omar El-Khayab calmly.

“What is it?”

The chanting outside continued.

“
Death to India! Death to India!
”

“When they find out I am gone,” he said, his voice trembling but smooth, barely above a whisper, nodding his head toward the window, the noise of the chants pounding menacingly at the air. “When they move toward the gates. When the people at the back push and crush the ones at the front, and the ground is spilled in crimson. When the gates come crashing down. When they climb the stairs, and they find you. Tell me, what will you say to the people?”

Bolin paused.

“Well, Field Marshal, have you no answer?” asked El-Khayab, his voice trembling as he slowly moved away from the window. “It seems a simple question.”

“I’ll tell them the truth,” said Bolin. “I will tell them their children will live to breathe another day.”

58

AIWAN-E-SADR

Four members of SSG, along with Millar, escorted Omar and Atta El-Khayab to the basement of Aswan-e-Sadr. In the basement, a green Humvee awaited. A pair of soldiers helped move El-Khayab into the back of the vehicle. Iverheart and General Lerik climbed into the vehicle across from them. Atta El-Khayab sat next to his brother.

Millar sat directly across from the blind cleric, their knees almost touching, Iverheart across from Atta. El-Khayab’s eyes were now hidden by dark sunglasses. He seemed to focus in on Millar.

Iverheart looked at Lerik.

“Where will we take them?”

“North,” said Lerik. “To the hills.”

*   *   *

Bolin commandeered an office down the hall from El-Khayab’s office, a smaller room with several phones. Dewey followed Bolin to the office. He shut the door behind him.

As Dewey picked up one of the phone receivers, he looked at his watch: 11:49
A.M.
Eleven minutes to spare.

“It’s Andreas,” said Dewey to an operator once he’d been patched through to the Pentagon. “Let’s make the call.”

Dewey listened as the phone clicked several times, then started a short beeping noise. He hit a button on the console and put the call on speaker.

“Yes,” said the voice.

Dewey nodded at Bolin.

“President Ghandra. This is Field Marshal Xavier Bolin.”

“Field Marshal Bolin. I’ve been expecting your call.”

“I’m pleased to tell you that Omar El-Khayab is no longer in power,” said Bolin. “He’s gone. The government of Pakistan is now in the hands of the Pakistani military. I must now get through the next few hours and a smooth change of regime. After that, my immediate goal is to work with you on a rapid and peaceful resolution to the conflict in Kashmir. If you will allow me, I would also like to discuss the creation of a long-term peace between us.”

“I’m happy to hear this news,” said Ghandra.

“As of noontime, in about ten minutes, Pakistani Armed Forces will cease offensive war operations at the Kashmir front,” said Bolin. “My field commanders have been ordered to stop all activities offensive in nature directed toward India. We will not abandon our defensive positions or any sort of right to self-protection, but we are no longer at war.”

“Thank you, Field Marshal Bolin.”

“Later today,” said Bolin, “I suggest that you and I reconvene by phone. Obviously, I ask that you join me in this general stand-down of battle. It would be my suggestion that we declare an immediate cease-fire and begin to discuss in earnest the terms of a lasting peace for our two countries.”

There was a long pause.

“India will stand down,” said Ghandra. “It could take me a few minutes, but I will order an immediate stand-down.”

“Thank you, President Ghandra.”

“As for the larger question of peace between our countries,” said Ghandra, “I will tell you that it is Pakistan who has dropped the nuclear bomb on India. How we come to terms with this I frankly do not know.”

“Nor do I, Mr. President,” said Bolin. “But I must tell you, I was as shocked and appalled by the dropping of this bomb as you were. I can only express my condolences, President Ghandra. I think the foundation of any future peace between our countries must be built on the recognition that there is a new and profound enemy among us. Today, he wore the clothing of a Pakistani. Tomorrow, he might speak Hindi. But make no mistake, the religious fanatic is enemy to us all.”

“I agree with you, Field Marshall Bolin,” said Ghandra.

*   *   *

At Indian Army Headquarters in New Delhi, General Vinod Promoth climbed out of the back of a black Range Rover, followed by two aides. He cast his eyes suspiciously to his left and right, then walked quickly toward the front door of the Main Administration Building.

Inside his spacious office, Promoth had gathered seven generals, including the top commander of Strategic Defense Command, the military branch charged with oversight of India’s nuclear weapons. In addition, Promoth had with him several high-ranking commanders from within the Indian Army. Promoth himself was the second-highest ranking officer in the Indian Army.

“It’s noon,” said Promoth. “Have there been orders from the president?”

“No,” said one of the generals. “All’s quiet from Rashtrapati Bhavan.”

“And are we all in agreement?” asked Promoth, looking into the eyes of his cadre.

“Yes,” said one of the commanders. “It’s time for India to fight back. The president has failed to protect the motherland.”

“Should we at least ascertain the status of the coup and the progress of the American team?” asked one of the generals.

“It’s too late for that,” said Promoth. “Noon was the deadline. The president had his chance. It’s time for the men in this room to reclaim our country and fight back against the Pakistani enemy. Ghandra is obviously not going to do that.”

“I’ve laid out a digest of the steps necessary to ensure smooth regime change,” said one of the commanders, looking at Promoth. “The first step is a general meeting of the Army and Air Force hierarchy here in New Delhi. With your permission, I will order a general session to take place this afternoon.”

“So be it,” said Promoth. “In the meantime, let’s go through the logistics of Ghandra’s removal and the process of parliamentary approval.”

*   *   *

In a deserted field fifteen minutes’ drive north of Islamabad, the black and green Humvee left the dirt road and began crossing an uninhabited landscape of stub brush, rocks, and sand.

The Humvee drove for more than a mile across the untouched, empty terrain. Finally, the Humvee came to a stop.

Omar El-Khayab grasped his brother’s forearm, then cast his blind eyes in Millar’s direction.

“Please spare my brother,” said Omar El-Khayab in Urdu. “He’s done nothing wrong.”

“‘The sins of the brother,’” said Millar, also in Urdu. “So tell me, did he try to stop you, Imam?”

“He did nothing,” said El-Khayab, “except take care of me. He is innocent.”

“Like the people of Karoo,” said Millar.

El-Khayab nodded, then placed his hand on his brother’s.

The soldiers removed Omar El-Khayab and his brother from the back of the Humvee. They were led away from the vehicle, a dozen feet or so. El-Khayab tripped, causing his glasses to fall from his head to the ground, where they remained. Lerik led them a few feet farther. Finally, they stopped near a low, flat boulder.

Standing behind the Humvee, Iverheart aimed the small video camera at General Lerik as Lerik removed a pistol from his waist holster. Lerik lifted the weapon and aimed it at Omar El-Khayab. El-Khayab stood, motionless. His murky eyes stared blankly into the distance. Lerik fired. The thunderclap of the shot was shocking in the quiet air. El-Khayab dropped to the ground, rolled awkwardly to the side, his face smashing against the earth. Lerik turned his weapon and aimed it at Atta, then fired.