Power Down (61 page)

Dewey took up the guard’s weapon and moved quickly up the path to the big terrace and stepped slowly along the glass, trying to get a view inside the massive spread. He stood in the middle of the wide, sweeping arc of glass that created what was, during daytime, one of the most glorious views of the blue ocean known to man. He waited. He would wait as long as he had to.

He stared at the bright moon reflected in the glass. Suddenly, a light went on. He saw movement. A bald man climbed out of bed, naked.

Dewey felt nothing now. No nerves or emotion at all. He moved the AEK’s fire control selector to full auto. Suddenly, he pulled the trigger back, fired the machine gun low, the long, black barrel across the glass, swept it quickly as he stepped forward, washing the glass in a furious
spray. The sound of thick glass shattering in the humid night air filled the sky.

The man inside ducked as bullets tore through windows. Dewey completed the horizontal zag across the entire back of the house, sparing the man inside but destroying everything else. He suddenly stopped firing and stepped forward, kicking aside a still-standing piece of glass as he tracked the man who now cowered in the corner.

Dewey dropped the submachine gun to the ground. He pulled his Colt M1911 from the pocket of the wet suit. Slowly, he raised the weapon. He stepped forward, over the transom of shattered glass. He aimed the .45 caliber handgun at the traitor’s head.

Dewey’s thick brown hair was wet with sweat now. Droplets poured down his tanned face. He took the last few steps toward the traitor. He stood above the man for several moments, the Colt’s muzzle just inches from his head. He waited, long enough for the man to finally turn his bloodshot, fear-filled eyes up at him.

“Hi, Vic,” Dewey said. “Bye, Vic.”

SEMBLER STATION
COOKTOWN, AUSTRALIA
SIX MONTHS LATER

The afternoon sun blazed down onto the dry country road. The road was a thin, black, raggedy-edged lace strung across countless miles of empty ranch land. The temperature, just before noon, had already climbed above a hundred degrees. A line of peeling white cattle fence ran to the horizon. A driveway, cut in dirt and stone, branched off the road. A large steel sign bridged the driveway:
SEMBLER STATION
in rusted lettering.

Few people on earth had ever been down this lonely road before. It sat in the proverbial middle of nowhere, somewhere in the northeast provinces of Australia, a region called Queensland, near the coast. After a time, a pickup truck puttered along at a slow pace. The old pickup was light green, its paint faded, a little rust, a Ford. The low sputter of the engine interrupted the silence. It came slowly to the crest in the small hill, stopped in front of the driveway. The passenger door opened. The man climbed out.

“Thank you,” he said, then closed the door behind him.

He wore jeans, an old, faded blue Lacoste shirt with a small tear at the midriff. He had long brown hair that fell down unkempt below
his ears, a beard, and mustache. He was dark brown from the sun. His eyes stood out, blue eyes that you could see from across a room. He was good-looking, but with an edge; there was a meanness there, a distance.

But what stood out the most was not his eyes. On the man’s left arm, a strip of crimson ran south from the shoulder blade, out from under the shirt; a scar that looked like a wide ribbon, jagged, as stark, as severe as the violence it implied. But he didn’t care what people thought. Not of the scar, not of him.

He walked under the steel sign, down the driveway, backpack over his shoulder. Low hills were covered in brown grass, stub wheat, and cypress bush. Empty vistas of blue covered the sky. Untouched ranch land spread out in every direction. The white wood of the cattle fence ran in a straight line as far as you could see. He followed the driveway a full mile. Sweat poured from his forehead and chest as he walked, soaking the blue shirt. His boots were soon covered in dust.

At the driveway’s end, a large, beautiful farmhouse, yellow clapboard with white trim and black shutters, surrounded by gardens. In the distance, a series of barns and outbuildings spread out like a campus. Beyond, cattle dotted the hills for as far as you could see.

In front of the farmhouse, a tall man with longish, silver hair was talking with a pair of ranch hands. He stopped talking as the stranger approached.

“Afternoon,” said the man. “I’m looking for Joe Sembler.”

“I’m Joe Sembler.”

“They said you might be hiring.”

“You looking for work?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You been a hand before?”

“No. My father owned a farm. But no.”

Joe Sembler looked at the stranger in silence, scanning his muscled body with his eyes. He slowly started to nod.

“You handle a horse?”

“Yes.”

Sembler paused. He stared for a moment at the scar on Dewey’s arm.

“What happened to your arm?” he asked.

The man stared back at Sembler. He remained silent.

“We could use another rider,” said Sembler finally. “These guys’ll get you set up.” He pointed his thumb at the two men he’d been talking with.

“Thank you,” said the stranger.

“What’s your name?” asked Sembler. “Where you from?”

The stranger paused for a moment. His hesitation didn’t take long enough for Sembler to notice. Two, maybe three seconds in all. He smiled, stepped toward Sembler, extended his hand to shake the rancher’s hand.

“I’m American,” he said, shaking Sembler’s hand. “My name’s Dewey Andreas.”

A thousand miles away, the warm morning breeze funneled scents of lilacs from the gardens next to a blue stone terrace. The seasonal winds came from the Mediterranean Sea, easterly currents that met the low plains along the coast of Lebanon, then dispersed through canyon after canyon, finally climbing up into the hills above Beirut. Today they provided a welcome coolness to the man and woman on the blue stone terrace of a massive villa on Patula Hill, in the small town of Broumana.

“Are they gathered?” asked the tall man, an older man, whose face still showed, despite its seventy-three years, the good looks that were once legend. Atop the man’s head, a block of gray hair was combed elegantly back, longish, parted down the middle. He sat next to the gunite swimming pool, shirt off, his long, tan legs dangling in the cool blue water.

“Yes, Aswan,” said Candela, the twenty-two-year-old Saudi beauty who acted as Aswan Fortuna’s personal assistant. She was cutting flowers from a rosebush next to the swimming pool. “They are inside.”

Fortuna stared for a moment at Candela. She smiled at him. He did not smile back. She stopped cutting flowers, then walked across the terrace to Fortuna. She sat down next to him.

“You worry me sometimes, Aswan,” she said. “Please smile for me. I know you’re sad. But there is much to be thankful for.”

“I’m thankful for you,” he said, placing his right hand against the girl’s cheek. “Will I always have you?”

“Always and forever.”

Candela brushed her long black hair back, shook her head back and forth, and smiled at Fortuna.

He stood up and walked to the edge of the slate terrace, looking down across the Broumana hills, in the distance Beirut. The black sea behind the city’s edge shimmered in the sun. Surrounding the perimeter of the mountainside chalet, he counted half a dozen men, machine guns in hand.

“Always and forever,” he whispered to himself.

Fortuna walked around the pool and inside the house. Four men sat at the kitchen table. They looked up at him.

“The envelope arrived,” said one of the men, holding a large manila envelope up in the air. “It is very grainy. But it should be good enough.”

Fortuna reached for the envelope and ripped it open. He stuck his hand inside, pulled out a black-and-white photograph. He stared for several minutes at the photo, his eyes wide, the flesh of his face flushing red. He stared for more than a minute in silence.

“Let us see,” said Nebuchar Fortuna.

He reached for the photo, but as he did so, Aswan Fortuna swung his hand through the air, slapping Nebuchar across the face with the back of his hand.

“Where did we get this?” Aswan demanded.

“An intermediary,” said one of the men. “London. Borchardt, the weapons dealer. We needed the cleric to pressure him.”

“What’s his name?” he barked angrily.

“We don’t know yet,” said one of the men.

“It cost us more than four million dollars—” Nebuchar said.

“I don’t care about the money!” shouted Aswan Fortuna, interrupting his son.

He threw the photo onto the table. It was grainy but showed a soldier: good-looking, young, American. He wore a military uniform. In his right hand, he held an M-60, pointed up at the sky. Black war paint ran in thick stripes beneath his eyes. He had short-cropped brown hair, a sharp nose. He stared straight ahead, a hint of danger in his menacing pose.

Fortuna calmed. He pointed at the photo. His anger transformed into steel resolution.

“I don’t care what it costs,” he said slowly, hatred and fury pooling like molten metal in his voice. He turned to Nebuchar. “Or how long it takes. I don’t care how many people we have to kill, or how many of our own must die. This is the man who
killed my son.
We will go to the ends of the earth to hunt him down. Do you hear me? Wherever he is, we must find him. We
will
find him.”