by Jack Mars
Luke shrugged. “Having a surprise meal with my favorite person.”
The waitress came over, a woman of about forty-five. “This is who you were waiting on?”
Luke nodded.
She put a hand on the side of her face, as if to block Gunner from hearing what she said. “He’s good-looking.”
Now everyone was smiling. “Maybe a little young, though,” Luke said.
She winked at Gunner. “That’s okay. I can wait. You guys ready to order?”
They ordered eggs, pancakes, sausages, the works. Gunner had orange juice. Luke stuck with a bottomless cup of coffee. Then they settled in. Luke was mindful of the time, but on the other hand, he had been up and working since before five a.m., and what was more important than time with his son?
“I saw that plane crash on the news this morning,” Gunner said without preamble. “An American congressman got killed.”
Luke nodded. “Yeah. That’s tough.”
“Are you going there?”
“Egypt?” Luke said.
Gunner shrugged. “I don’t know. Wherever the plane crash was.”
“It was in Egypt,” Luke said. “I don’t know if I’ll go there. No one has asked me to. And there isn’t necessarily any reason for me to go.” Luke could hear the evasiveness in his own answer. “They’re still investigating the reason for it.”
Gunner was shaking his head. “The show I saw said it was probably a terrorist attack. The host said he was ninety-nine percent sure.”
Luke smiled again. This smile was a little more rueful than before. “Well, if a TV host says he’s ninety-nine percent sure of something, then it must be true.”
“Would you consider not going, if I asked you?”
Luke nodded. “I would consider it. But I would also ask you to realize that I have a job to do.”
“Dad, what if I told you I wanted to join the military?”
That’s the way it was this kid. He had a sharp mind, and it made sharp turns. It was hard to know sometimes what was around the next corner.
“Well, I would tell you that if you still feel that way five years from now, then I would help you explore your options. But I would also want to explore your motivations. There are easier ways to get in shape. And if you think you want to do it because it looks like fun, I can tell you right now that it isn’t. The idea of fun will go right out the window the first time a drill sergeant is screaming at you and breathing down your neck during a ten-mile run before breakfast, or the first time you’re face down in the cold mud while they’re lobbing live rounds over your head. And the first time actual bad guys are trying to kill you, using innovative and surprising methods that were never discussed during your training? That will not be fun.”
Gunner shook his head again. On his face was the ghost of a smile. “I would just do it so you can worry about me the way I worry about you.”
Game. Set. Match.
Luke was temporarily without any kind of answer. The kid could do that to you.
“Anyway, here’s some good news,” Gunner said, instantly changing the subject. He could do that, too—get you on the ropes, then suddenly let you go again. He was a little bit like a cat playing with a mouse.
“Let me have it,” Luke said.
“You know how Nana and Grandpa love their skiing. Well, we’re going out to their condo in Colorado for a few days. So that will be nice. I like skiing.”
Luke nodded. He couldn’t imagine how much skiing Rebecca’s parents still managed to do at this point, but so be it. “When are you leaving?”
“Tonight,” Gunner said. “So I’m going to miss another day of school. You know how they are. They think school is for poor kids.”
Luke smiled. Gunner had razor-sharp insights. It was like he could cut into people’s minds and crawl around inside. Luke thought back to Boudiaf, trying desperately to get his own family out of town. Luke’s family—one person—happened to be leaving anyway. That was a very good thing. Whatever was happening, at least Gunner would be nowhere near it.
Across the way, Susan’s face appeared on the TV screen. The camera panned backward, taking in her full body, standing at the podium. She was still wearing the blue suit from this morning. In his mind’s eye, Luke pictured her jumping out of bed nude, in the pre-dawn darkness, to face another trying day. He sighed.
On the screen, Susan looked as beautiful as ever, perhaps less formal than in the past. Less Presidential? A person might say that. The camera pulled back even further, showing the crowded press room at the White House.
Luke stared hard at the room. Feelings washed over him, and it was important not to look away. That was the room where Luke had taken a bullet for Susan, and where Marybeth Horning has been assassinated. For an instant, Luke saw Horning’s head come apart, and his side began to itch where the bullet had penetrated.
Susan was about to speak.
Gunner’s eyes darted back and forth between the TV and Luke’s face.
“Do you love Susan?” he said.
“That’s a difficult question to answer,” Luke said. “We’re both adults. We’ve both had a lot of ups and downs. We both have demanding jobs—she probably has the most demanding job in the entire world.”
“Do you love her the way you loved Mom?”
Luke looked at Gunner then. He shook his head slowly. “I will never love anyone the way I loved your mom. Except for you. I love you just as much.”
He nodded at the truth of what he had just said. Whatever he and Susan had, and it was great, and it was important—it wasn’t the same as what he and Becca once had. He imagined that Susan could say something similar about herself and Pierre. Leave it to a thirteen-year-old boy to clarify all that for him.
On the TV screen, Susan stepped to the microphones.
“Good afternoon,” she said.
CHAPTER EIGHT
12:15 p.m. Eastern Standard Time
The Press Briefing Room
The White House, Washington, DC
“Good afternoon,” Susan said. “I don’t have a lot of information for you, so I’m going to keep my remarks brief.”
She stood at the podium. She looked out at about fifty reporters and about as many cameras and microphones, which she knew would bring her face and her words to nearly every corner of the globe. She had long ago stopped worrying about that.
For a brief moment, she let her gaze wander the room. It was a bleak winter morning. People did not look like they wanted to be here. Neither did she. The news was bad, and she didn’t want to be the one to deliver it. But the situation demanded leadership, and so…
“As you all know, about four a.m. our time, and eleven a.m. local time, a chartered plane crashed on its approach to the Sharm El Sheikh airport in the Sinai Peninsula, Egypt. On board were United States Congressman Jack Butterfield of Texas, as well as other close friends of ours, including Sir Marshall Dennis of the United Kingdom, and the Egyptian Consul-General to London, Ahmet Anwar. A total of eighty-three people died on board that plane, including twenty-seven Americans, as well as people from ten other countries. There were no survivors.”
Susan paused. Cameras whirred and clicked in the quiet.
“Video surveillance footage from the airport, as well as our own satellite data, have now confirmed what many of us suspected all along—the plane was brought down by a surface-to-air missile fired from the surrounding mountains. We condemn in no uncertain terms this cowardly attack on innocent people, and we stand united with the international community in our resolve to defeat the agents of terror.”
Already the reporters were gabbling and muttering, readying themselves to shout questions at her. This, even though they had been informed beforehand that she was taking no questions.
“We offer our sincere condolences to the families of the victims. Our thoughts and prayers are with you.”
Susan’s breath caught in her throat. For a moment, she surprised herself by fighting back tears. She thought she
had gotten past this sort of thing, that she had become so hardened by tragedy, it didn’t reach her emotions anymore. But she was wrong. The crash of that plane, the loss experienced by the families of those on board, triggered something in her—the losses of so many people these past several years, her own losses, and her fears of more.
A sudden image came to her—that of her daughter Michaela, held by gunmen, tied up and secured to a catwalk nearly fifty stories above Los Angeles. She shook that away. It was replaced by the briefest, most fleeting image of an explosion underground, a big steel door blowing outward, and flames engulfing the big Secret Service man walking just in front of her—the Mount Weather disaster.
Everyone in the room was staring at her now.
She stopped following the prepared speech and wandered off script. “In a very real sense, we don’t just stand with you, we are you. This isn’t to minimize anyone’s personal pain, but we’ve all been through the wringer in recent years. We’ve lost family, we’ve lost friends—I’ve lost some of my very best friends on Earth—and we’ve lost the feeling of a secure and sane world that we once had. But we’re going to get that feeling back, and we’re going to pass it on to our kids and grandkids. These terrorist atrocities are going to stop!”
Despite themselves, some of the reporters and TV crew people began to clap.
“We do not yet know who the perpetrators of this attack were. But I promise everyone in this room, and everyone around the world, that we will find out, and when we do, we will act swiftly to bring them to justice. I also reiterate to you that we are working hard, together with our many allies and friends, to create a world where incidents like this do not happen.”
There was near-silence now. She was beginning to repeat herself. That’s what you get for veering away from the prepared remarks.
A heavyset, bearded man in the front row raised a meaty hand. Susan did not acknowledge it, but he spoke anyway. “When you say ‘bring them to justice,’” he said, “do you mean a court of law?”
Susan knew the reporter well, but at the moment, his name escaped her. It was that type of day. “When we know more, you will know more,” she said.
A flood of questions came. Everyone was talking at once, and Susan could barely differentiate one word from the next. Her Secret Service detail began to hustle her from the stage. She leaned into the microphone one last time.
“Thank you,” she said.
She moved through the heavy green door to stage right, big bodies flanking her on every side. Kat Lopez stood in the corridor, holding a clipboard. Their eyes met.
Susan shook her head. “I thought that went rather well,” she said.
CHAPTER NINE
7:31 p.m. West Africa Time (1:31 p.m. Eastern Standard Time)
Millennium Koko Gentlemen’s Club
Lagos, Nigeria
“Right on time, just like I said.”
Crazy Eddie sat with three of his men at a round table in a plush VIP section on the second story of the upscale club. Through a glass partition, he could watch the action down on the floor. It never stopped. Though it was just early evening, there were three girls on stage, all nude except for high-heeled shoes, all working the poles.
Good, strong girls, he knew them to be. Acrobats. Athletes. Eddie had been living here at the club in the overnight suites for months, and he believed he had sampled just about every girl who worked in the place. Black girls from here in Nigeria and neighboring countries, white girls from Russia and Eastern Europe, Asian girls from Cambodia and Thailand—Eddie loved them all.
Lights flashed in purple, soft blue, and orange. Heavy bass pumped, but Eddie felt it more than heard it—the glass wall did a good job of canceling the sound. Down below, another group of men had just entered the club—half a dozen men wearing white and blue kaftans with matching pants, and kufis on their heads. They all wore heavy beards, almost comically so, as if the beards were fakes glued to their faces.
They were speaking with the two large bouncers at the door, but everything seemed to be in order. Eddie had already paid their way in—no need for a three-thousand-naira entry fee to be a deal breaker, or to result in a sudden massacre.
“Ready, boys?” Eddie said. “Let’s be ready to welcome our guests. Watch their clothes. Watch for guns.”
Eddie raised a hand and snapped his fingers, gesturing for the two waiters standing by the door to bring the champagne out. It was Eddie’s way of being funny. His guests were Salafi Muslims and would never dream of drinking alcohol. Indeed, they would probably enjoy murdering people who did.
And the naked girls? Dancing? That brought the whole thing to another level. Just holding this meeting here at the club was another way of being funny. Eddie being Eddie, was what some people called it.
The visitors were coming up the red carpeted stairs now and Eddie could see that two of them were among the most wanted men in Nigeria—wanted dead or alive. Preferably dead. The others were big men, bodyguards.
One of the bodyguards slid open the glass partition door and the group came in. Eddie rose from his seat at the table, as did his men. From the corner of his eye, he saw a couple of his boys with itchy fingers—they were anxious, ready to reach inside their jackets and pull their guns.
“Steady,” he said. “This is a friendly visit.”
The leader of the men came straight to Eddie. He was short and thin, with a long, thick beard that was showing streaks of gray. His skin was deep black and the skin of his face was lined with creases and furrows. This man had spent a lot of his time in the great Sahel, the sun beating down on him.
“Yisrael Abdul Salaam,” Eddie said, extending his arms outward. “Welcome to my home.”
“As-Salaam-Alaikum,” the man said.
Eddie shook his head and grinned. “Whatever you say, man.”
“Edward,” the smaller man said, “I’ve known you since you were a boy, and you’ve always been trouble. But this…” He gestured at their surroundings. He eyes were sharp and he was not smiling. “This is the devil’s work. I should kill you for causing me to walk through a den of immorality such as this.”
Now Eddie stopped smiling. The last thing he wanted was a lecture from a religious fanatic. “The world is changing,” he said. “This is the new Nigeria. Fast money, fast life, beautiful places, beautiful women. You and your god are relics of the past. And the clock is ticking.”
Yisrael’s eyes never wavered. “Before you die, may Allah cause your dirty tongue to be severed from your mouth.”
Now that the pleasantries were out of the way, Eddie gestured at the table. “Shall we sit and talk for a moment?”
Yisrael nodded. He sat at the table and Eddie sat across from him. The rest of the men stood. Eddie didn’t even bother to offer Yisrael a flute of champagne. He was no longer in a funny mood. He glanced around. The men were tense. Could a five-minute meeting take place without a gunfight? That was the major concern. Yisrael, of course, was no suicide bomber. He was too important for that.
“I understand you stole something today,” he said.
Eddie shook his head. “I found something.”
“And you don’t even know what it is.”
That was true. There was no sense denying it. “And you do?”
Yisrael nodded. “Of course. It belongs to friends of ours.”
Now Eddie did smile, a ghost of a grin. “Oh? My understanding was you no longer had friends.”
Yisrael slammed his small fist on the table. All around them, the startled gunmen jumped. And twitched. But did not pull their guns.
“Why did you invite me here?” Yisrael said.
“To personally offer you this thing that I found. Because I’m sentimental and you are my countryman and my tribal brother, after all. But if you don’t want it, I’m sure I can strike a deal with these friends of yours.”
“These friends of mine will put your head on a pike.”
Eddie nodded slowly. “Yeah. I see that. But do you want th
is thing or not?”
Yisrael’s hard, deep-set eyes stared at him. They seemed to become everything. The soft pastel colors of the club, the flashing lights, the thumping bass, even the gunmen standing nearby—all of it seemed to drop away.
“I do. Very much.”
“It will cost you a million dollars in cash,” Eddie said. “Can you manage that amount? I know your friends can do that and much more. It is an expensive item. I lost two friends today acquiring it.”
Yisrael smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “A pity. They died for money.”
“Better than your men,” Eddie said. “Who die for a fairy tale.”
Suddenly, a tall man in a white kaftan had a gun in his hand. He was a broad man, very dark, with very big hands. He pointed the gun directly at Eddie’s head.
“Allah forbids this talk!” he shouted, and for an instant Eddie thought he might really pull the trigger. Words. The man would kill and die for mere words. Well, if it happened, at least it would be… abrupt.
But a second later, all of Eddie’s men had their guns out. The barrel of one was an inch from Yisrael’s scalp. And Yisrael’s men had their guns out. Guns pointed everywhere in the room, a forest of guns. That’s what Eddie got for even trying to talk to these people.
“Can you pay the money or not?” he said.
Yisrael sat back and smiled. Now he seemed relaxed. Perhaps he couldn’t relax unless murder was in the air. “I think we are not so poorly off as you suppose. Three hundred and fifty million naira, and you get to keep your head for the time being. It sounds like a wonderful deal for you. You would not enjoy meeting my friends.”
Eddie shook his head. “Dollars,” he said. “A million American dollars.” He smiled again, but it didn’t feel authentic. People like Yisrael could really ruin a good mood.
“I’m a citizen of the world. What good are naira to a man like me?”
CHAPTER TEN
