Drone (47 page)

“In both cases, armed drones under my control are flying over these extremely vulnerable pipelines. On my order, they will destroy a section of each pipeline. No matter how quickly you are able to repair them, I will be able to destroy another section with the push of a button. Besides the environmental damage and financial cost these attacks will incur, the most important thing they will accomplish is to convince the Europeans
that you are no longer able to deliver a reliable supply of oil. My nation, however, is prepared to step in and fill that void. Oh, and for what it’s worth, I have your natural gas pipelines targeted as well.”

Titov’s face hardened. “One moment.” He slammed a button that muted the sound on his end. Myers watched the room erupt into a frenzied conference. A minute later, he snapped the sound back on.

“You’re bluffing, Madame President. Your nation is not prepared to engage in a ground war with us. Your military has exhausted itself with its misadventures in Iraq and Afghanistan, and you yourself are about to be impeached for your war crimes against the people and government of Mexico.”

“Do not underestimate my nation’s capacity for war, Mr. President. But I concede your point. My nation does not desire war at this time, and my nation makes no threat to you.”

Titov pointed at the screen where the video images still played. “That is no threat?”

“I said, my
nation
makes no threat. Right now, I am the one making the threat. Those unmanned drones are flown by a private contractor under my employ. The American government has no part in this now. This is a personal matter between me and you, Mr. Titov. Not our governments. And you are absolutely right. I am about to be impeached, but that hardly means I will be thrown out of office, especially if our two nations are suddenly at war. But even if I was to be thrown out of office, I still control these drones and will still pose a threat to your pipelines, even from prison, if it comes to that.”

Again, Titov snapped off the sound and conferred with his advisors. Britnev bent Titov’s ear the most.

Myers wondered if she had overplayed her hand. She essentially called him out in front of his peers, just like in a schoolyard brawl. If Titov was like most men, he’d give himself over to his anger and pride, and her gamble would fail. The sound came back on.

“Your criminal mercenary Pearce is behind this, isn’t he?” Titov demanded.

“Troy Pearce is an honorable man, and he’s the best in the world at what he does. But he’s not the only resource available to me. I can always release the audio and video files I sent to you to Congress. Senator Diele would beg for war. Ask Britnev if I’m telling the truth or not.”

Titov didn’t have to. He’d been intimately familiar with Diele for years, dating back to when he was a KGB officer.

“Mr. President, the choice here is very simple. If you stay in Azerbaijan, you will never be able to exploit the oil resources available there anyway once I destroy your pipeline, and you will lose all of your capacity to transport your nation’s legitimate oil and gas reserves. At the very least, you’ll lose the European markets. We both know that the only thing propping up your economy is your oil and gas exports. Are you willing to start World War III knowing that you will begin that war in a state of economic collapse?”

Titov drummed his fingers on the table. He was dancing on the knife’s edge.

Myers wondered
, Have I pushed him too far?

Titov finally spoke. “If we withdraw from Azerbaijan and you release these files, your Congress may still declare war on us, so perhaps it is best for us to stay where we are and see what happens?”

“If you withdraw from Azerbaijan, I guarantee that I will destroy those files. I’m no fool, either, Mr. President. A shooting war between your country and mine would be a disaster for both of us, and a nightmare for the whole world. There is nothing to be gained, except to advance the interests of our mutual competitors, especially China and Iran.”

“And what is to keep you from threatening our pipelines in the future? Even holding them for ransom?”

“You have my word.”

“That’s not good enough,” Titov said.

“What else can I offer?” Myers asked.

Britnev leaned into Titov and whispered something. Titov nodded, smiled.

“One thing in order to prove your sincere desire to avoid war.”

“Name it.”

Titov did. It was an outrageous suggestion.

To his astonishment, Myers agreed to it instantly.

58

Los Pinos, Mexico D.F.

President Barraza’s security detail stood alert around the office. Antonio sat behind his desk in an elegantly cut light blue suit, while Hernán took up his usual position, slouched on the couch with a glass of liquor in his hands.

Cruzalta sat opposite the president, and next to him, Senator Madero, a silver-haired elder statesman. Both men had been checked for weapons when they entered the building and again when they entered the president’s office. Madero kept a hand-stitched brown leather attaché case on his lap.

“What we have to say might be better said in private,” Cruzalta suggested.

Antonio shot a glance at Hernán, who nodded his approval.

Antonio turned to the security chief. “Dismissed.”

“But, Mr. President—”

Antonio’s glowering eyes cut him off.

“Yes, Mr. President.”

The security chief nodded to his men and they left the room.

“Say what you’re going to say, traitor.”

“Traitor?” Cruzalta could barely contain his rage.

“What my brother means to say is, what is it that you are proposing?” Hernán asked.

Madero opened his attaché case and handed Antonio a sheet of paper. He read it.

“There are 425 signatures on that list requesting that you vacate the office of president,” Madero said with great solemnity. “Enough to satisfy the constitutional requirements to elect an interim president.”

Antonio laughed. “I have no reason to step down.”

“You have over a one hundred fourteen million reasons to resign. Our nation is about to collapse into a civil war. We need new leadership, now,” Cruzalta said.

Antonio laughed again. “You?”

“No. Senator Madero is my choice, and the choice of the majority on that list, and of many of the governors.” Cruzalta was right. Madero was the most respected politician in Mexico. For decades, Madero had displayed courage, honesty, and integrity in his public service.

“If this nation is on the brink of revolution, as you think it is, then it’s of your own making. You’re the one who partnered with the Americans to kill poor Bravo and wage war on our people,” Hernán said.

“Our people? You’re talking about the animals who butchered tens of thousands of innocents—those are the people
you
partnered with. The greed, the corruption, the violence—all of it must end if our nation is to have any hope of real democracy.”

“A dreamer’s dream, Cruzalta. This is Mexico,” Hernán laughed. “You can’t change a whole culture by changing a few names on the office door.”

“Perhaps not. But we can at least try, and if we fail, we can fail as
men
, rather than living like a pack of vicious dogs.”

Madero trembled with rage. “How dare you speak so poorly of your own people, Barraza. It’s the politicians who corrupt the people, not the other way around.”

“You have many enemies, Barraza. Some closer than you think. Get out while you can,” Cruzalta said.

“I have no fear of enemies. The people love me, especially after the attempt on my life,” Antonio said.

Cruzalta reached into his pocket and pulled out a digital player. He explained that it was a portion of the conversation Pearce had secretly recorded with Ali in San Diego.

“Then why did you attack the president at the Hidalgo church?”

“Hernán Barraza ordered the attack on his brother.”

“Why would he want you to attack his brother?”

“He wanted his brother to think that you Americans were trying to assassinate him.”

“But that drone could easily have killed the president.”

“Hernán wants to be president. He is already making plans for another attempt.”

Antonio turned toward his brother. He was on the verge of tears. “Hernán?”

“What is that recording supposed to prove?” Hernán protested. “Americans can doctor anything on digital.” He knew Antonio thought the moon landings were staged.

Antonio turned back to Cruzalta. “You are a dangerous man and a traitor. You make me sick.” Antonio nodded at Madero. “And you, old man, are a fool.”

Hernán slumped in his chair, visibly relieved.

“So give me one good reason why I should resign in disgrace and let you traitors take over the government?” Antonio demanded.

Madero pulled out another document and set it carefully in front of Antonio. “On this resignation letter, you are guaranteed a full and complete pardon and total immunity for all crimes you may have committed, and you may keep all of the money you currently possess by whatever means you acquired it, up to and including the moment you sign the document.”

Antonio read the resignation and the pardon, then handed it to Hernán. “You’re the lawyer. What do you think?”

Hernán took the paper from his brother and scanned it.

“What about my brother? Is he included in this pardon?” Antonio asked.

“We are prepared to extend that offer.”

Hernán nodded, smiling with approval. “It appears to be legitimate to me.” He handed back the paper to Antonio, who set it on his desk.

“What’s to keep the new government from changing its mind? What about lawsuits?” Antonio asked.

Madero’s kind brown eyes narrowed. A faint smile appeared beneath his elegantly trimmed silver mustache.

“You have my word, señor. But of course, for a wretch like you, honor is no virtue. So I suggest that you leave the country. Take everything with you. Find a place that does not permit extradition. We will not violate our agreement, but take every precaution if that lets you sleep at night. Whatever it takes to get you to sign that paper.”

“I need seventy-two hours to settle my affairs before I can leave the country. After that, you can have your government. Is that acceptable?”

“We agree,” Cruzalta said.

Antonio opened a drawer. “And I am completely pardoned and immune from all prosecutions for any crimes I have committed up until the time I sign this paper, correct?”

“That is exactly correct,” Madero said.

Antonio pulled out a big chromed Smith & Wesson .44 Magnum and stood up with it. He held it up in front of his face.

“Even if I kill the two of you?”

Madero didn’t flinch. “Yes. The agreement is ironclad.”

Antonio rubbed the big silver barrel against his cheek. “I love this gun. Have you ever seen what a slug from one of these can do to a bear’s skull?”

Guns didn’t bother Cruzalta. He’d had too many of them pointed at him over the years to care anymore.

Antonio whipped around, pointed the pistol at Hernán, and fired.
The giant hand cannon roared, but the kick was enormous. The slug tore into the wall six inches above Hernán’s head. Everybody’s ears rang from the deafening gun blast.

Antonio lowered the barrel directly at Hernán’s furrowed forehead.

Hernán fell to his knees, begging for his life, wrapping his arms around his brother’s waist.

To Cruzalta’s ruined ears, it sounded like Hernán was crying underwater.

BOOM!

Hernán’s head exploded like a ripe melon.

The security team broke through the door, guns drawn. They aimed their weapons at Cruzalta and Madero.

“Mr. President! Are you all right?”

Hernán’s blood and brain tissue stained the front of Antonio’s elegant blue suit.

“I’m fine. Leave,” Antonio ordered, waving them away with the pistol.

Confused, the security detail holstered their weapons. Blood was still pumping out of what was left of Hernán’s cranium onto the finely woven Persian carpet.

“I said leave. Now!”

The security detail left, tails tucked between their legs. “We’ll be outside if you need us, Mr. President.”

Antonio tossed the heavy gun onto the desk, then picked up a Montblanc pen and unscrewed the top. He flashed his signature smile at Madero and Cruzalta. Flecks of his brother’s gore were still on his face.

“Now, gentlemen, where do I sign?”

59

Tehran, Iran

The policeman nudged the bum in the gutter with his shoe.

“Drunkard! Get up, or I’ll have you whipped.”

The man moaned, barely stirring.

The policeman kicked him harder. The bum groaned, sat up, rubbed his face. He seemed too well dressed to be a drunk.

“Where am I?” His voice sounded strange, like he had a cold.

“You’re going to jail if you don’t stand up and start walking, now.” The policeman grabbed him by the nape of the neck and yanked him to his feet.

“Let go of me, fool. Do you know who I am?” The man blinked hard against the harsh morning light. His head ached, and his sinuses were packed. Was he sick?

“You are Mohammad Reza Shah Pahlavi back from the dead for all I care.” The policeman grabbed the man by his rock-hard bicep. The policeman frowned. What kind of derelict had an arm like that?

Ali broke the policeman’s grip and shattered his jaw in a lightning-fast strike. The cop crumpled to the alley pavement, knocked out cold.

Ali checked his watch. He needed to reach President Sadr with Myers’s amazing offer as quickly as possible. He just hoped he could find some aspirin before then. That Sunni pig Khan said the headache would only
be mild, but the effects of the anesthetic were excruciating.
If I ever find him, I’ll cut off his hands,
Ali promised himself.