Coup D'Etat (47 page)

Aswan stared at the chains. He let out a small gasp as he registered the splatters of dried blood layered on the walls behind where the chair sat, the ground covered in red.

Nebuchar walked slowly across the room. His eyes bulged in horror.

On the ground against the left side wall, a collection of objects was arranged on the floor in a line. Saws, knives, a machete, piles of rope, several car batteries with wires coming out, red plastic gasoline canisters, a chain saw, a television, several more radios, too many hammers to count, a pile of pliers, garbage bags, a large leather whip, chains, bricks, a small pile of long branches from a tree, a staple gun, filthy towels.

“You look like you’re going to be ill,” said Muamar, looking at Aswan. “This is the war. This is what happens in the war, on both sides. The Jews are just as bad.”

“Do not mistake my mood,” snapped Aswan. “I am nauseous, yes, but this is my duty as a father. This place, this room, is precisely what we have asked you for. It could not be any more perfect.”

“You have given us much, Aswan,” said Muamar. “We share your thirst for revenge. This man, his name is Andreas?”

“Yes,” said Nebuchar. “Dewey Andreas.”

“We have all heard his name,” said Muamar. “He is an enemy to us all for killing Alexander. It is an honor to help you destroy the American.”

“Is the team at the airport?” asked Nebuchar.

Muamar glanced at his watch. He reached for his cell phone and pressed a button. He spoke rapidly in Arabic, listened for a few moments, spoke again, then hung up.

“They’re waiting,” said Muamar. “Forty-three in all. The pilot is in touch. They’re two hours away.”

“And their instructions are clear?”

“They are to bring Andreas directly here. They are not to harm him.”

“Good,” said Aswan.

Muamar smiled briefly and glanced at his watch.

“It’s going to be a long wait,” said Muamar. “There’s a more comfortable room upstairs.”

Muamar turned and walked to the door. Nebuchar followed. Aswan remained still.

“I’ll wait here,” said Aswan. He walked to the chair and sat down. “I would like to wait here. This is the last duty I will perform for my son.”

71

EN ROUTE TO BEIRUT

Dewey awoke with a shudder. Slowly, he moved his head. For a moment, he had forgotten where he was. But it came back to him now in a wave of pain, fear, and nausea.

How long have I been passed out?
He was angry at himself.
How could I drift off like that?
Then he remembered: Beirut. Fortuna. He would be waiting. Whatever it took to get Bolin to turn on him, it just showed how far Aswan would go to avenge his son. Dewey shuddered at the thought of the torture that surely awaited.

Dewey shut his eyes. He shook his head.

“No,” he whispered to himself. “Not yet. I’m not ready to die.”

He needed to think. To strategize.

Dewey focused his eyes. The nausea was gone now. He saw, first, the pool of blood and vomit that spilled across the corrugated steel of the cabin floor. It ran back toward the rear, the motion of the plane pushing it backward.

Dewey’s legs were straight in front of him. Flex-cuffs held the ankles together tightly. His arms lay on his lap, flex-cuffs tight around his wrists.

He looked across the cabin at the young terrorist. He sat on a fold-down canvas seat, staring at Dewey, smoking a cigarette. On the ground in front of him, a small pile of butts had collected.

Dewey’s eyes met the young killer’s. The terrorist stared at him, refusing to look away.

“He’s awake,” said the terrorist. “I was afraid I lost you. Do you know that if you’re dead when I deliver you to Aswan I myself will be killed?”

Dewey said nothing. Slowly, painfully, he sat upright.

“You killed my brother in Australia,” said the terrorist. “You recognize me now, yes?”

Dewey leaned back against the steel rebar. His hands were between his legs. With his shoulder, he wiped blood and vomit from his beard.

“What’s your name?” asked Dewey.

“Youssef.”

Dewey showed no emotion, but the memory stirred. The face of the terrorist in the car, shooting at him.

“Now you remember,” said Youssef. “Thought you killed me? You thought wrong.”

Dewey stared in silence.

“Would you like some peanuts? We’ll begin the in-flight movie in a few minutes. Today we’re showing
Bambi.
”

Dewey ignored him. Looking down, he saw a glint of steel at his ankle. They had neglected to remove his Gerber blade from the sheath at his ankle.

Slowly, he leaned forward, his wrists cuffed tightly together, and pulled the cuff of his pant leg down, making sure the tip of the blade was covered.

“When do we land?” asked Dewey.

The terrorist stood up.

“That’s a good question,” he said. “I myself would like to find that out. I have a woman in Beirut and tonight I would like to get laid. I haven’t fucked anything in over a month.”

“I guess you guys don’t count goats, do you?” asked Dewey.

Youssef laughed. “That was good. You see, I appreciate a sense of humor. Not bad, Andreas. I would never fuck a goat, though. A cow maybe, but not a goat.”

Youssef walked to the front of the cargo hold. A large steel door shut off the hold from the flight deck.

Quickly, Dewey moved his cuffed hands to his ankle.

The terrorist took a small mouthpiece from a radio near the door.

With difficulty, Dewey pulled the knife from the sheath. Working as fast as he could, his hands bound tightly together, he sliced the flex-cuffs from his ankles. He turned the knife and slowly, carefully inserted the tip of the blade between his tightly-bound wrists, then pushed.

In Arabic, Youssef spoke into the mouthpiece and then placed it back on the radio. He walked back and stood over Dewey. He took out a cigarette and lit it.

“You smell like throw up.”

Dewey stared up at the terrorist as he clasped his big hands over the hilt of the Gerber, concealing it just in time.

“Where did you train, Youssef?” asked Dewey. “Jaffna? Darfur?”

“Bekaa Valley.”

“Have you ever guarded someone before?” asked Dewey. “Did they teach you how to keep watch?”

The terrorist smiled. He shook his head as he looked down at Dewey.

“Stupid question,” he muttered. “Of course.”

“What’s the first rule?” asked Dewey.

The terrorist took another puff. He exhaled, then smiled.

“The first rule is don’t look away.”

“What’s the second rule?” asked Dewey.

“Keep your weapon with you,” said the terrorist.

“Very good,” said Dewey.

“What’s your point?” asked the Arab. “What does it matter? You are tied up like a pig. I could fuck your mother in front of you and you couldn’t do a thing.”

“My point is, in the span of a minute, you broke the two most important rules,” said Dewey. “You looked away and you left your weapon over there on the seat.”

Dewey stared at the terrorist. Youssef took a drag on the cigarette, shaking his head. His eyes revealed a small streak of fear.

Dewey glanced from the terrorist’s eyes across the hold. The killer’s Glock sat on the canvas seat, the silencer pointing out. Dewey looked back up at the terrorist.

Calmly, Dewey took his wrists and held them up toward the terrorist. The blade was now tucked between his wrists. He yanked and pulled the flex-cuffs apart. They dropped like ribbons to the ground.

Youssef paused. He was momentarily confused. Then he lurched backward. But Dewey caught him with his leg, tripping the terrorist as he tried to run for his weapon. Youssef fell to the ground.

Dewey stood. He was dizzy and weak. He stepped toward Youssef, who was desperately trying to stand up. Dewey caught him in the mouth with a hard kick from his steel-toed boot, shattering his jaw. A tooth fell to the steel floor. A piercing scream rose in the hold as Youssef tumbled sideways.

In Dewey’s right hand, he held the combat knife. He pounced to Youssef’s chest, bringing the blade tip in a slashing motion down above the killer’s heart. He plunged it halfway in, pausing as the killer looked up at him. Dewey waited for the moment of recognition. He wanted to see the panic in the black eyes of the terrorist and the final understanding that he had been beaten. Blood flamed out from his nose, ears, and mouth.

“That’s why the rules are so important, Youssef,” said Dewey as he stared into the terrorist’s eyes for a brief second, then thrust the razor-sharp blade through his heart.

72

THE WHITE HOUSE

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Jessica sprinted out of the Situation Room, past a pair of Secret Service officers stationed just outside the door. She took the flights of stairs two steps at a time. At the first floor, she slowed slightly, stepped through the office of Cecily Vincent, the president’s executive assistant, who looked up but did not try to stop the national security advisor, one of only two people allowed to walk into the Oval Office at any time, the other being Vincent herself.

Jessica opened the door to the Oval Office and stepped inside. Inside the Oval Office, President Allaire was seated in a wing chair. On the chesterfield sofas in front of him sat half a dozen U.S. senators, one of whom, the senate majority leader from Texas, Senator Greer Callahan, was in midsentence.

Jessica’s eyes immediately met the president’s.

“Excuse me, Greer,” said the president, interrupting Callahan. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re going to have to reconvene.”

“Jessica, should we be concerned by that look on your face?” asked one of the senators, Joe Sharp from Missouri, as he stood up to leave the Oval Office.

“I apologize,” said Jessica, not answering Sharp’s question directly.

Cecily Vincent shut the door as the last of the senators exited.

“What is it?” asked the president.

“Bolin,” said Jessica. “He double-crossed us.”

“What do you mean?” asked the president.

“Bolin sold Dewey to Aswan Fortuna. We believe Dewey’s on a plane right now, bound for Beirut. The rest of the coup team is either with Dewey or already dead.”

The president stared at Jessica in disbelief. Anger crossed his face, then reddened his cheeks.

“How do you know?” he asked, stepping behind his desk.

“Video, cash transfers,” said Jessica. “I confronted him and he admitted to it.”

“That son of a bitch,” said the president. He reached for the phone on the desk. “Ungrateful motherfucking bastard.”

“Right now, Mr. President, we have to forget about what Bolin just did,” said Jessica. “We have at most four, maybe five, hours until that plane lands in Beirut.”

“So let’s intercept the goddamn plane,” said President Allaire. “Scramble some F-18s.”

“It’s too late,” said Jessica. “We weren’t tracking the flight path. We don’t even know if it’s going to land in Beirut. We’re guessing. But it’s all we have. We need to meet the plane.”

“How?” asked President Allaire.

“Israel,” said Jessica.

*   *   *

“Prime Minister Shalit,” said Allaire a few minutes later, clutching the phone to his ear as Jessica listened in on another handset. “I apologize for interrupting your vacation. I’m here with Jessica Tanzer.”

“It’s quite all right,” said Shalit. “Gstaad will get along without me for a few hours.”

“We need your help,” said the president. “We have a situation. I don’t have time to brief you fully on all of the details, but the bottom line is, there’s a plane bound for Beirut. On board is one and possibly several American GIs. They were kidnapped.”

“Why Beirut?”

“Aswan Fortuna,” said Jessica. “He paid handsomely for one of the men. When he receives possession of him, he’s going to torture and kill him. This man is very important to us. To America. To me personally. He saved our country when Alexander Fortuna attacked us.”

“Benjamin, this is the team we sent in to remove Omar El-Khayab,” said Allaire.

“So that was you,” said Shalit. “Thank God for that. What’s your soldier’s name?”

“Andreas,” said the president. “Dewey Andreas.”

“So Aswan paid for his revenge?” asked Shalit.

“Yes,” said Jessica. “The CIA’s assumption is that Hezbollah will be waiting for the plane.”

“I’m curious,” said Shalit. “How much did Fortuna pay?”

“We believe the figure is two hundred and fifty million dollars,” said Jessica.

“My God,” said Shalit, momentarily taken aback. “How much time do we have?”

“Four, maybe five hours,” said Jessica. “Maybe less.”

“Four hours?” asked Shalit. “That’s not a lot of time. Hold on the line. Let me get General Dayan.”

“Menachem Dayan,” said Jessica to President Allaire, “the head of IDF.”

The president put his hand over the receiver.

“I know who the hell he is, Jess,” said Allaire.

“Sorry. Habit.”

“It’s okay. I’m not senile yet.” A slight grin came to his lips. “Israel.”

It was all he said, but Jessica knew exactly what he meant. It was moments like this when you understood who your true allies were.

The phone clicked again.

“There we go,” said Shalit. “President Allaire, Jessica, I’m joined by General Menachem Dayan.”

“Good evening,” said Dayan, his voice deep and gravelly, a heavy smoker, with a thick Israeli accent. “President Allaire, Ms. Tanzer. It sounds like we have a little bit of a predicament on our hands.”

“Yes, General,” said Jessica. “Do we have enough time?”

“It’ll be tight,” said Dayan. “We’ll try our best.”

“Thank you,” said Jessica.

“What I need right now are two things,” said Dayan. “First, I need to know what kind of plane the prisoners are on.”

“C-130,” said Jessica. “It will be tan, desert camo. The colors of the Pakistan Air Force.”

“Okay, that’s good,” said Dayan. “Second, I need photos of the prisoners. Immediately. Can you do that, Jessica?”

“Yes,” said Jessica. “Give me sixty seconds.”

Jessica typed furiously away on her BlackBerry.

“Can you help us, General Dayan?” asked President Allaire.

“I have already dispatched a squad from Shayetet Thirteen,” said Dayan, referring to Israel’s elite team of special forces commandos, their version of the Navy SEALs. “My best commander, a kid named Kohl Meir, will be running the recon. Fortunately, Rafic Hariri is near the sea. But there’s not a lot of time. We’ll do our best. Get me the photo. My Shayetet team will be doing a lot of killing tonight. I don’t want them to accidentally take down any of your team.”