The Pressure of Darkness (42 page)

Cary Ryan clapped his hands together. The sound startled Father Benny. "Yeah, we drop it on the first pass to the LZ, but how about wrapped up in a life raft for a little extra protection."

"You got stuff that isn't traceable back to Uncle Sam?"

"Most assuredly."

"It'll have to do." Burke felt satisfied they could complete the mission and had a reasonable chance of survival.

Bowden leaned closer to Ryan. He was not smiling. "You got the life insurance policy I asked for? Two hundred fifty thousand?"

"You're all set."

"Oh, what the hell, then," Bowden said. "I wasn't doing anything else this weekend anyway. Let's go for it."

SIXTY-ONE

SUNDAY

At first there is only silence, except for the vaguely erotic sigh of the evening wind. Then there comes a man-made explosion as an engine roars to life, the darkened helicopter rattling, whining, and thumping as it lifts off and away, flying blind. The uncertain pilot flies dangerously close to the sandy, rock-freckled ground, hoping to avoid detection. Inside a greenish, shadowy cabin rests the human cargo: two tense, former "D" boys.

"I am most definitely too old for this shit." Bowden chewed gum furiously. He checked and re-checked his pack. "How the fuck you talk me into this?"

"It was that or let you pop a cap in my ass."

"Damn, Burke, I'm really scared," Bowden said, as if amazed. "This shit was sure easier when we were kids."

"Yeah. It was, wasn't it? We were too stupid to be afraid of dying back then. Now we know enough to pucker up."

"You feel it, too?"

"More and more the last few years, bro," Burke said. "Lately it's been keeping me up at night, the not knowing how or when, or what happens after."

"Not knowing sucks."

"Hell, yes."

Scotty Bowden leaned back against the vibrating seat, pack between his knees. "How you doing up there, Father?"

Father Benny did not turn around. "Don't bother me, my son. I'm praying my Italian ass off, excuse me, Lord."

Bowden laughed. He had a fine line of perspiration forming above his eyebrows and the skin beneath his left eye was twitching. "Burke, can I ask you something personal? You really love this girl, don't you?"

Burke, eyes closed. "Yeah, I think I always have."

"For some reason that's hard for me to imagine," Bowden said. "I don't get women, except for my kid of course. I'll bet it feels nice."

"I have loved two women in my life.
Really
loved, I mean." Burke's mind went far away. "I guess that makes me a very lucky guy."

Bowden giggled. "You'd better be, or we're coming home in body bags."

"Scotty, we may not be coming home at all this time."

"You really know how to cheer a guy up, don't you?"

"It's a talent I have."

Bowden's jaws working on the wad of gum. "Do you ever have dreams?"

"Mostly of the times something went wrong, you know?"

"Yeah, I have a bad one that I still get pretty often, actually. It's about the night Doc got blown up. I'm watching it happen from a few yards away, and I keep trying to get my rifle aimed to do something about it but I'm moving too slowly, like I'm stuck in clear mud. So I just have to stand there and watch him take a burst. That really sucks."

"Scotty, did they kill him? Did they do Doc?"

Bowden spits the gum out, head bobbing up and down. "It was them, man. And that's all the more reason to get some tonight, right?"

"Damned straight." After a time, Burke shifted in his seat. "I get this weird dream about that same night when I'm all stressed out. It's about the guy Yousef Dahoumed, the one we went after in Djibouti, or at least I think that's what it's about. It's him, but it's not him."

"You lost me."

"Well, when I stitched the bastard he was sitting there in a bunch of gore, you know? Blood and guts and human shit. And he was laughing and laughing. Really spooky. So this dream is a little like that, except it's not him, it's somebody else. And it's not there, it's somewhere else. Somewhere I've never been."

"Funky."

"Anyway, I'm there, and here is this guy, rolling around in the blood and giggling like mad. And I want to shoot him, I try to shoot him, but he keeps moving, almost like he knows what I'm going to do. I can't seem to kill him, no matter what."

"Then what happens?"

"Nothing. I wake up."

"At least you don't die. Those are the fucking worst, man. Sometimes I dream I'm back in the old days collecting ears on a string again, and get myself plugged. I can feel the bullet go in and rip things up, feel my heart slowing down, and then I can't get my breath. You know what I mean?"

"Gentlemen?" Father Benny gripped the controls like a man with dengue fever. "Would you mind changing the subject? I have to fly this thing."

Burke and Bowden laughed. They punched each other on the shoulder. Father Benny clearly did not appreciate gallows humor.

"Here comes the border. Jack, are you sure the Mexican army isn't going to shoot us down?"

"They look the other way now and then, Benny. It's all been arranged."

"I certainly hope so, because here we go."

Benny dropped as low as he dared and urged the bird forward. Bowden stared out the window at the rocky desert, then into Burke's eyes. It was on. They both sensed it. There would be no turning back, they were in-country. The dark, empty land beneath them looked the same, but now the vibe in the chopper felt as wild and crisp as heat lightning.

SIXTY-TWO

Juan Garcia Lopez has an impressive collection of modern art. The sparely furnished room is appointed with sleek contemporary furniture, which makes the large, ornate wooden dining table with antique candelabras seem truly anachronistic. Still, Mohandas Hasari Pal feels comfortable in this room. After all, dreams have come true here. He listens to the musical selections, some classic recordings of Ella Fitzgerald in her prime, and enjoys the champagne, a fine 1982.

"You need to relax."

The alcohol has dulled Pal's pain, and he is feeling sweetly victorious. He can afford to jest. But his companions, the tattooed man known as Gorman and the somewhat effete Mr. Nandi, do not smile. Gorman has barely touched his wine, although he did partake of the meal. Mr. Nandi, ever the good servant, stands unobtrusively in the corner, ready should his services be required.

"What are they doing?" Gorman whispers from the side of his mouth. "Why have they been gone so long?"

"Be at ease, my friend," Pal replies in a low voice. He pats Gorman's hand. "We are very nearly finished with our work. Nothing can stop us now." He finishes his drink and motions. Mr. Nandi glides forward and refills his glass. "If I know our friend Buey, he is dawdling over his collection of tapes and DVDs, trying to select the perfect film to complete the evening. He will return shortly."

"Then why has Esteban gone with him?"

The door opens and Buey enters, a very sleepy Esteban trailing behind. Indeed, the Ox has brought a DVD and a second bottle of champagne. He grins, raises the liquor. "A movie for after we finish with the night's business."

"We have little more to say, my friend. Please, feel free to open it now should you wish."

Buey, a thick and bearded man worthy of his name, plops heavily into his chair. "Perhaps I will, if only to drink to your genius, Mohandas." As he busies himself with the bottle his lieutenant, a compact younger man who has struggled and failed to grow a decent moustache, sits groggily beside him, clutching a DVD of "The Exorcist." The bottle opens with a POP very reminiscent of a gunshot. Esteban jumps a bit, then giggles and sags into a stupor.

Buey pours champagne for everyone. "A toast." He raises his glass. "To the man who offered me revenge, and who is about to make me one billion dollars with a telephone call." He downs the drink, pours another. He is very drunk. "You know how I hate gringo bastards like this hombre Burke. They have hunted me for years, paid off my own people to pursue me, and forced me to live like a prisoner in my own house. Twice in the last month more of those fuckers have tried to come into my home to assassinate me."

"I can sympathize," Pal soothes. "The United States government can be so utterly ruthless."

"But now he will suffer, this man who shot at me and fucked your wife?"

"I assure you, he will soon know the taste of hell."

"This is a good thing." Buey grins widely. "And it will give me more pleasure than you can imagine blackmailing America for such a sum, Mohandas." He turns to Esteban, kisses the boy on the cheek and fondles his crotch. "And with a billion perhaps we will go down to New Zealand and buy land to raise cattle. We will tell everyone we made money in the stock market and we will be known as generous benefactors of the arts. We will be loved, eh?" Another kiss. To Mr. Nandi and Gorman, he offers: "And you, gentlemen, what will you do with your money?"

Buey has forgotten that Gorman seldom speaks. After a long moment, he tries to cover his misstep by cracking a joke. "Perhaps our silent friend here could visit a spa for a decent bath and a facial!"

But no one laughs. Mr. Nandi makes a small, clucking sound of disapproval. Suddenly afraid, Buey gulps and rips his gaze away. Gorman does reply, this time. "I will do whatever my guru wishes."

"Mr. Nandi?"

"The same."

"And you, Mohandas?"

A genial Pal sips champagne. "As for me, I will insure my legacy. Fortunately, I am still here to see that it happens."

"With books and films and temples, my friend?"

"That is how it shall begin."

"So esoteric an addiction," Buey chuckles, "is quite foreign to me."

"Unlike you, Buey, I am not a devotee of the flesh. I wish only that my name live long after I am gone—and that it is celebrated along with those of the other great teachers." Pal catches himself. "Oh, my ego. I must apologize. The wine has loosened my tongue and made me immodest."

Buey laughs heartily. "Not at all my friend, we are none of us without fault." He wraps his arm around Esteban, who has fallen asleep. "Whatever makes you happy. This is all that matters in the end." Buey turns to his young lover. "I do not understand. Esteban never drinks so much as to pass out like this." Looks back at Pal. "In truth, I feel very tired myself. It has been a stressful day. Perhaps you would forgive me if we do not watch a film this evening, after all?"

"But of course." Pal speaks soothingly. "You are always a most gracious host, Juan. If you need your rest, we can certainly see to ourselves and see you at breakfast."

Buey's large head is sagging forward. He startles himself by snoring. His voice begins to slur. "Mr. Nandi, unless you can help us, I must ring for assistance. It is time to get Esteban to bed." He mumbles something else. His hand crawls like a drunken crab toward the ornate dinner bell.

Pal speaks crisply: "Do it now."

In a flash, Gorman is on his feet. He crosses the carpet soundlessly and clasps Buey by the wrist. "Don't bother to ring," he whispers. "We have already taken the liberty of eliminating most of your people."

"You
what?
"

Pal chuckles warmly. "Mr. Nandi and others of my people have already eliminated the majority of your guests and staff. Even your beautiful concubines. The medical personnel making the drugs have also been accounted for. Only the guards in the towers remain. We will see to them too, in good time."

"I don't understand. We are partners." Buey humiliates himself by wetting his pants. This makes Gorman laugh out loud. Mr. Nandi clucks again.

Pal mocks him with a sad, sighing sound. "You think so small, my friend. I was never interested in blackmailing anyone with the threat of a plague. I am only interested in unleashing one. What we have here is a disease which will change the world."

Buey is shaking his head, mumbling something incoherent in Spanish that sounds like 'but you can't do that.'

"Oh, I can and I will. And the only people inoculated against the plague will be my disciples. Jesus? Buddha? They will be as dust. I will have become Shiva himself, the destroyer—and savior—of worlds. I'm sorry to sadden you, Juan, but your usefulness and that of Los Gatos is done."

Gorman pats his cheek. "And you see that ugly man who you think needs a bath? He will be dealing with you in just a moment."

Buey's eyes are glassy. He is now struggling to stay awake. Mohandas Pal leans forward on the table and addresses him with some urgency. "Juan, my friend, have I ever spoken you of the Thuggee?"

Juan Garcia Lopez shakes his head. He tries to speak, but can only grunt.

Pal lectures: "Their history is fascinating. I shall be brief, considering the circumstances. The real origin of the religion is lost in antiquity, but the cult may have been initiated by Mahomedan vagrants who plundered India after the invasion of the Monghuls and Tartars. The Hindu belief is that the divine spark came from the goddess Bhowanee. The first written accounts were uncovered by the British occupiers around 1810, if my somewhat inebriated memory serves."

Buey tries to speak again. What emerged was the babbling of an infant as Gorman, who stands behind Esteban and near Buey, begins to unwrap something from under his dinner jacket. Something he has kept hidden around his waist. Meanwhile, Mr. Nandi has removed the sash he used for a belt. He glides closer. His eyes are feral.

"The Thuggee worshipped the Mother Goddess Kali, as do I," Pal continues. "A gentleman named Philip Meadows Taylor collected the accounts of one Ameer Ali into a classic tome called
Confessions of a Thug
. I have read it many times, as has my friend Gorman, who seldom reads."

Buey finds words. "Wha-wha-what have you . . ."

"Shhh, my friend. There is no point in becoming aroused or upset, certainly not at this juncture. To continue, the Thuggee believed in wining and dining their victims before offering them to Kali and, of course, relieving them of all their money and possessions. It seems that at a suitable point, well after dinner and a drugged drink, their leader would issue a command, and the slaughter would begin."