The generals applauded.
“As you know all too well: when the disgusting, ungodly attempted coup took place against me last year, American CIA agents were secretly pulling the strings behind the scenes. Thanks to all that is just and sacred in the world, the rebellion failed. The traitors from within our own country were sufficiently punished. Sometimes, late at night, I feel I can still hear their screams coming from the torture chambers.”
The generals applauded again.
“But,” The Butcher continued, raising a tobacco-stained index finger. “The American conspirators have not yet been punished. They hide in the shadows, and run away when things don’t go their way. These agents made their entire country and all of its people fair game. We will attack them wherever we find them. We have already identified targets across our region. And, now, thanks to our friends in Turkey, we have the weapons we need. General…”
The Butcher gestured towards a heavyset man with a shiny bald head and small, evil eyes. The general stood and nodded towards a guard standing close to the door. It swung open and there was an awed silence among the men as a large container was wheeled into the room. The general slowly opened the top of the case. There were gasps as attendees stretched their necks to get a glimpse of what was inside. One of the battlefield nuclear weapons had been brought in to display to the men. The Butcher smiled.
“These were kindly acquired for us by allies in Turkey during their operations to remove their government,” the general announced. “Thanks to their bravery, and the not inconsiderable amount of money we paid them, the weapons are now in our hands. These are battlefield nuclear weapons taken directly from the Americans, and now they will be used against the very people who made them.”
“Some might say the Turkish officers should have kept them,” The Butcher interjected as he lit a cigar. “It appears their dream is dying and their coup will fail. But a coup needs money as much as it needs weapons. What happens in Turkey from now on is not any of our concern. Our concern is to use these weapons wisely. And by that, I mean to cause as much destruction as possible.”
The generals and advisors all nodded in agreement. Except one. His worried expression hadn’t gone unnoticed by The Butcher. This advisor was new to the higher echelons of the court. A short fellow with round spectacles, he had been brought in to replace a previous advisor who had fallen from a fifth-floor window in an unfortunate accident that had occurred shortly after he had questioned the president’s judgment during a meeting.
“Would you like to say something?” The Butcher asked.
The advisor cleared his dry throat and took a sip of water.
“Sir, I admire the plan to take revenge against the American conspirators. It is your right and it is just.”
“I know it is,” The Butcher replied. The advisor paused while The Butcher stared at him. He had already figured the preamble was to be followed by a “but.”
“Continue,” The Butcher instructed coldly.
“I-I, would also like to advise you of the capabilities of these weapons,” the advisor stuttered before glancing at the missile. “Collateral damage will not be easy to control. You said you intend to use them in our region. That means people other than Americans could be harmed.”
“Collateral damage is part of war,” The Butcher stated, his mouth twisting into a grimace. Everyone around the table could see that a large vein beside his temple was now protruding more than it had been a few minutes earlier. Most of them knew this was a telltale sign his temper was about to explode.
“You’re right,” the advisor continued. “But you also have to think about your international image. It’s better if you are not perceived as...” the man’s words seemed to slink backwards into his mouth.
“As what?”
Generals around the table looked at the advisor like he had lost his mind.
“What I mean is, public relat—”
“Finish your sentence. As what?”
“As a … butcher. Sir.” The advisor’s final syllable had turned to a squeak.
Musa Sakani, the brutal leader of this small but mineral-rich African country, knew that many in the international community referred to him as “The Butcher.” Indeed, a few foolish people in his own country did. He secretly took some pride in this moniker, but he did not accept others referring to him in that way, even as a warning.
Sakani only had to glance at a guard standing beside the doors. The guard strode over to the advisor. With a huge hand he slammed the small man’s head into the solid table. A wound quickly opened up and blood ran down the man’s face. He was immediately hauled away, his toes dragging pathetically across the floor as he screamed for mercy.
The Butcher smiled, knowing that in the coming weeks, as he took his evening brandy, he could close his eyes and try to hear the man’s screams echoing through the halls of the palace, thinking of the advisor’s long days in the torture chamber.
3 Off the Record
Washington D.C., USA
Chris Collins sat in a tall, red velvet armchair swirling a thin black straw in a crystal highball glass with two fingers of some amber liquor the cute bartender had suggested. It was strong and expensive and probably, he guessed, on the “push this before it expires” list. He’d been drinking a great deal more these days, telling himself it helped with the pain. He absentmindedly rubbed his thigh. The rounds he had taken in his leg as he’d high-tailed it out of Shanghai with Ned had torn through his quadricep and his ankle. Even the specialist had gasped upon seeing the X-ray for the first time. Chris knew there were enough plates and screws in his leg now to make commercial airline security more fun than a rectal exam—hell, there might even be a few of those if he set off enough alarm bells.
Off the Record—the basement bar under the Hay-Adams hotel—was well-known among the Washington elite and often used for non-committee meetings to hammer out deals and arrangements not suitable for the bright light of day. Locally, it is known as downtown Washington, D.C.'s best "place to be seen and not heard." Chris had been here often during his time as Deputy Director of the CIA, before he had quit the agency after some infamous rogue missions and a final act of heroism that helped bring a notorious international criminal to justice.
Chris’s table was in the back, enveloped in low, amber light and surreptitious whispers. Caricatures of the city’s political royalty—past and present—hung around the room reminding Chris of the famous Billy Crystal skit on Saturday Night Live parodying Fernando Lamas. Djoo look mahvelous, dahlings, he thought, studying the rendering of George W. Bush pouring Barack Obama a glass of wine above him.
Most of the other patrons sat in the shadows. None looked in his direction. There were more deals made here than on the hill. He raised the glass to his lips and before the liquor had stung his nostrils, he noticed the bartender looking in his direction. Jet-black hair pulled back in a severe ponytail, she looked to be twenty-five, maybe thirty. Probably just out of college, clerking for some senator or congressman making next-to-nothing requiring the second job tending bar.
Her eyes were big and dark and her face was taut and fresh, obviously new to D.C. She didn’t look jaded or bitter enough to have been around longer than a year or two. She didn’t turn away when he caught her gaze. Her lips curled up into a faint smile and for a second, Chris thought about moving to the bar. She was probably the most fun person in the place, and he was bored.
Suddenly, in a mental splash of cold water, he realized the girl reminded him of Tsu. His heart ached like someone had squeezed it in a vise. The last time he had spoken to her, Tsu was being held in a Mexican prison. He wasn’t worried about her, there was no jail cell that could hold her for long. A Mexican prison might be terrifying to most people, but Tsu had been in far worse situations. Plenty of them. A former agent with South Korea’s National Intelligence Service, her fate had become intertwined with Chris’s during recent missions, and he knew she could deal with adversity.
She’d to
ld him she was going to let the authorities work out that she was innocent. He raised his eyebrows over that thought and hoped she knew what she was doing. More worrying right now was the fact that Sheldon, the boy Tsu had rescued in Mexico, was being detained separately.
And then, unwanted, Chris’s ex-wife was there in his mind, like she always had been, judging him. Though he’d been separated from Alice for quite some time, he never escaped her influence or her scrutiny. “Oh, that’s just rich, Chris,” he imagined her saying, “leering at a sorority girl like a dirty old man. You should be ashamed of yourself.”
He knew that Tsu, on the other hand, would have found it amusing that a girl almost half his age was checking him out. She would have known that the young pup was no kind of competition, and she would have been right.
He took a deep breath, shook away the image of his ex-wife and turned around, pretending to study the wall of pictures. The therapist he’d seen once—only once—had said that moving on would take time. Wounds of the heart were not easily healed. Somehow, just thinking about Tsu made the wounds of divorce heal better than a full session of outrageously expensive therapy.
He glanced back toward the bar, wondering if the girl really did look like Tsu or if he was now just seeing her face everywhere. The bartender was serving martinis to a couple of loud, pudgy men in cheap, rumpled suits, doing their best imitations of powerful political types. He smiled a little at that. These were the hangers-on, the barnacles of Washington. Men who came here in search of influence and found they weren’t quite up to the task. Most slunk back to whatever real lives they’d climbed out of, but some found work as lobbyists, activists, or aids to the real power brokers. They were easy to spot, tossing cash around and handing out freshly printed business cards on subtle off-white paper of tasteful thickness. The type that a twenty-something bartender at Off The Record would find impressive. Chris made a mental note to have cards worked up for his new agency. Cheap ones.
“There you are,” a voice boomed, catching him by surprise.
He had almost taken a sip of his drink and was glad he hadn’t. He knew this guy’s standard greeting was a hefty slap on the back that might have knocked the liquor right back out of him.
“Hello, Frank,” Chris said, placing his glass on a coaster. He started to stand, but the man landed his meaty, black, baseball glove of a hand on Chris’s back.
“Aw, hell, Chris,” he laughed. “Don’t stand up. Let me just grab a drink and I’ll be right back. You need another one?”
He didn’t wait for Chris to decline before turning away. Frank McDougall walked through the dimly lit lounge, bumping every single chair he passed as he lumbered toward the bar. He couldn’t help it, he was as wide as he was tall. The man had been a defensive lineman at LSU and though he’d put on the middle-aged spare tire around his belly, his shoulders still looked like bowling balls bursting out of the seams of his tweed jacket. He returned with his mitts wrapped around two sloshing drinks.
“Lindsey said this is what you were drinking. Smells like pure gasoline to me, man.”
When Frank sat down in the chair across from Chris, the wood creaked and groaned in protest. If it had smashed to the ground in splintered pieces, Chris would not have been surprised. Frank put his glass to his lips and sniffed. His face twisted like he’d just eaten a lemon, but he gulped at the drink before clunking his glass down on the table.
“Disgusting. Why did you order that shit?”
Chris shrugged. “I didn’t. She suggested it.”
“Yeah,” Frank looked over his shoulder toward the bartender. “Probably trying to get rid of the stuff.”
“That’s what I thought as well.”
“Either that, or she don’t think you have good taste,” Frank said over a boisterous chuckle that rumbled around like an earthquake threatening to bring the red velvet walls down around them. He then noticed that the bartender was looking at Chris and smiling.
“Man, you got some gray around those temples, but even the young women still love ya. You’re gonna be good lookin’ ‘til the day you die.”
“Well she didn’t find me attractive enough to give me something good to drink, now did she?” Chris said, then added: “Okay, Frank. What’s up? Why are we here?”
“What? A guy can’t meet up with his pal for a cocktail without gettin’ the third degree?”
Chris sat his glass down. “We haven’t been drinking in two years, Frank. You and I both know this isn’t a social call. So, what is it? Do they have you on nanny duty over me?”
“We need to drink together more often. But you know how tough it is for me to get a pass out from my wife.”
Chris smiled at the thought of such a huge, tough guy being downtrodden.
Frank then leaned over the table, his massive shoulders enveloping it and giving it the appearance of being made for a child. His grin was still hanging on his face, but his eyes had turned serious.
“Chris,” he said, in the lowest voice he’d used since entering the bar, “you did some pretty serious shit when you were Deputy Director. The rogue missions n’all. But you were one of the best ever, and the agency is still cutting you a whole bunch of slack. They’re working hard on gettin’ the boy out of prison.”
“And Tsu?”
“And Tsu, too.” Frank swallowed the rest of his drink. This time, he didn’t flinch. “And nah, I’m not on babysitting detail. They know where you are and what you’re doing.”
Even though Chris knew this was true, it still made him feel uneasy. He opened his mouth to respond, but Frank spoke first, holding up a hand to stop him.
“I’m here on my own,” he said. “I need some help and you seem to be intimately connected with this whole...” he paused to look around. He leaned forward even more and whispered, “Landsdowne thing.”
Chris relaxed and sat back in his chair. “Frank, you know as well as I do that my intel is nowhere near as good as what you have. I’m not in the agency anymore. They don’t send me coded memos and redacted documents. You probably have more information than I do.”
“But you were there, man,” Frank said. “I have the ‘Eyes Only’ dossier on him and all that, but you have the insight.”
“I wish I knew what to tell you.” Chris felt himself studying the other tables nearby. He couldn’t tell if his radar was up or his paranoia was getting the best of him. “I only know he’s incredibly smart. It wouldn’t surprise me if he was playing us all right now, even from behind bars. His network extends to every continent.”
Frank slumped back in his chair. Chris saw for the first time that the man was tired. His eyes had bags under them and his graying stubble was a bit longer than it should’ve been per CIA policy.
“Look, Frank,” he said, “If I get a whiff of anything new, you’ll be the first to know.”
The big man nodded and pressed his lips together in a tight smile. “Thanks, man. There’s been a lot going on lately. We’ve got this nuke scare going on, relations with China going south, and that’s on top of all the regular bad guys who keep popping up around the world.”
“Wait.” Chris cocked his head to the side. “What nuke scare are we talking about here?”
“You didn’t hear?” Frank looked toward the bar and wagged two fingers at Lindsey. “The shit that went down in Turkey a few hours ago?”
Chris hadn’t touched his drink, but he was about to be handed another one. He picked up the glass and braced himself.
“I’m trying to avoid the endless scrolling news,” he said and sipped the strong liquor. “It’s bad for the soul. I prefer to pass the time with jazz and red wine.”
The drink went down hot and heavy and he almost choked as the liquor slipped reluctantly into his body. His stomach lurched and he worried for a split second he might vomit. He’d had some rough booze in his time, but there was something seriously wrong with this stuff.
Frank ignored his distress. “Tactical nukes, stolen from Adana air base. Turkish mili
tary turned on us. There’s a coup underway as we speak.”
Chris frowned. The news hit him harder than the booze.
“I thought I’d heard whispers about Turkey in here. I guess that’s what everyone is talking about. In between trying to advance their careers.”
“This was supposed to be a need-to-know operation,” Frank continued. “Senior leaders and troops on the ground. But that hack on the Pentagon that happened recently? Seems someone got the date and time these things were being convoyed out. Most likely Turkish agitators abroad who are pulling the strings of the coup.”
Through the haze of the drink, Chris was suddenly alert and thinking crystal clear. It all made sense. Landsdowne took the boy, Sheldon, and forced him to hack military systems, including The Pentagon. Tsu had told Chris that weapons info had been breached, before her call was cut short. He hadn’t had the high level access to find out more, but now the details had clearly hit the headlines in the most explosive way. There’s no way the CIA could hush up an attack by Turkish forces on American soldiers—their supposed allies.
“I’m guessing we have eyes on the nukes?” he asked Frank. “Where are they headed now?”
“Nope. They’re gone. Almost without a trace. Tactical nukes don’t have the same advanced protection as strategic weapons. I’m guessing that’s gonna change pretty soon.” Frank’s voice faded as the dark-haired bartender sat two new drinks in front of them. He beamed up at the girl and handed her a twenty. She winked at him and walked away quickly. She had obviously learned that loitering was frowned upon at Off the Record.
“Without a trace? Seriously?” Chris said, wiping his chin.
“I said almost,” Frank sniffed. “We’ve got an angry, America-hatin’ dictator in Africa with stacks and stacks of gold. Intel says the nukes are headed there.”
“Okay, so he’s got battlefield nukes on the way and hates the USA. This is not sounding good.”
“You haven’t heard the best part yet.” Frank picked up his second drink and swallowed half of it in one go. It gave Chris the time to interject.
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