by Caleb Carr
We scarcely had time to enter the Dayabumi Complex before we saw Eshkol going back out, now in the company of a man who seemed, from his dress and features, to be a Muslim Malaysian. Most of the country’s Hindu and Buddhist minorities, originally of Indian and Chinese origin, had sided with the Allies during the war as retribution for years of mistreatment at the hands of the primarily Muslim government. Eshkol’s choice of companion, therefore, was at least a fair indication that he did indeed intend to make a run for the loyalist-controlled mountains. When we returned to the crowded plaza outside the building, we waited until we saw Eshkol and his guide disappear in an old Japanese four-by-four up the Karak Highway toward the mile-high peak beyond the front lines that was the site of the Genting Highlands resort. Larissa then signaled her brother, and we all made quickly for a dark, fairly deserted area beyond the National Mosque to rendezvous with our ship, aboard which Eli was already keeping careful satellite track of Eshkol’s vehicle.
We conducted our slow pursuit in a somewhat somber mood. Ahead of us lay what was arguably the greatest center of illegal trade and unbridled hedonism on the planet, a place that could not have had a more fitting title than the “Las Vegas of Malaysia”; but before we reached it still more horror lay in wait for us. We found Eshkol’s car and its driver at the start of the eleven-mile, bomb-pitted thoroughfare that led to the resort from the main highway: the unidentified Muslim man, having guided Eshkol through the Allied checkpoints below, had been rewarded with a savage slash to the throat, after which Eshkol had apparently continued his passage on foot. He was evidently determined to leave no witnesses behind, a conclusion from which I actually drew encouragement: it at least indicated that he intended to survive whatever event he was planning, which ruled out a suicide bombing, still the only truly fool-proof method of committing a terrorist act.
Had I adequately considered the second possibility inherent in his actions—that he simply enjoyed killing when he could—I would have heeded the voice that I had attributed to poor Max, and urged my comrades to turn back.
C H A P T E R 3 6
Long before the outbreak of the Malaysian war, the group of large white hotels centered around an expansive casino known as the Genting Highlands Resort had established itself as the most luxurious and popular gambling venue in all of Southeast Asia. Over time recreational attractions other than the casino were built at the resort in an attempt to create the illusion of a family vacation spot; but this veil never really achieved opacity, and the gaming tables remained the obvious attraction, as evidenced by the fact that they were mobbed twenty-four hours a day. And though several of the hotels had been damaged during the war and an understandable bite had been taken out of Malaysian tourism, many determined sporting souls continued to make the pilgrimage to the Highlands from abroad. Together with the non-Muslim members of the Malaysian army garrison (Muslims being forbidden to enter the casino), these loyal patrons kept the action at the tables going strong, simultaneously supporting those ancillary industries—prostitution, liquor, drug dealing, and thievery—that generally spring up in places where people exhibit an irrational determination to be separated from their money.
But by 2023 such comparatively ordinary, even quaint pursuits were no longer the biggest businesses in the Genting Highlands, as became clear from the moment Slayton, Larissa, Tarbell, and I were dropped off atop the old Theme Park Hotel, which had been repeatedly bombed during the war and had finally been abandoned. The Highlands’ rubble-strewn yet undauntedly merry streets were buzzing with commerce that I can only describe as a kind of doomsday bazaar. Stands of weapons, some of them quite advanced, stood in concrete basins that had once been fountains, their sellers hawking them aggressively to bands of Malaysian soldiers, as well as to visiting dealers and terrorists. Seeing that we were foreigners, tradespeople continually approached our party to find out if we wished to purchase and take home any “servants”—a clear euphemism for what amounted to slaves—while subtler men and women engaged us in quiet conversations concerning any and every imaginable piece of high-tech equipment. Great crowds cheered, drank, smoked, fired off guns as well as fireworks, and had at each other sexually on top of anything that seemed marginally less garbage-strewn than the ground. Through all of these activities the artillery batteries that ringed the resort kept up an incessant fire on Kuala Lumpur, while a giant portable radar dish swept the skies for any sign of Allied planes. It was an utterly stupefying scene, all the more so because of its underlying cause: the rest of the world’s simple desire to keep breathing.
The extent of the confusion in the resort did not concern us unduly as we made our way into it, for though we had temporarily lost visual contact with Eshkol, we knew enough about how and why he’d come to the Genting Highlands to be relatively sure that we would be able to relocate him. After making inquiries concerning the purchase of weapons-grade plutonium—inquiries that didn’t seem to alarm or surprise the dealers we approached in the slightest—we were told that such transactions were the strict province of General Tunku Said, whose headquarters were in a bowling alley adjacent to the casino, a place that resembled, from the outside, what it had effectively become: a windowless concrete bomb shelter. Said, who had apparently assumed warlord powers over the area since the escalation of the war, also oversaw the casino’s business; but it was from the sale of the very rarest types of merchandise that he made his truly serious profits. Larissa had, of course, brought along her handheld rail gun, and after a quick conference we decided among ourselves to demonstrate it for Said in the hope that his desire to acquire such valuable technology would persuade him to share any information he had about Eshkol.
As we approached the guards outside the bowling alley, I noted that my heart rate was remarkably steady; I felt that I now had enough experience of violent situations under my belt—particularly, after Afghanistan, those involving Muslim extremists—to be able to cope with whatever collection of fanatics we might find inside. (Of course, this bravado was fortified by the knowledge that Larissa would be watching my back.) The soldiers standing guard at the entrance to the structure, however, were wholly unlike the terrorists we had encountered during the Afghan episode; indeed, their natty dress and punctilious behavior made them seem singularly out of place amid the madness of the resort. After we identified ourselves in order to establish our credibility, one of the men sent word for a senior officer, a Major Samad, who soon appeared with several more soldiers and, after upbraiding the guards for failing to stand at attention continuously, heard our offer. He pulled out a small communicator and quietly proceeded to have a conversation with someone I could only suppose to have been General Said; and several minutes later we found ourselves walking through a dark corridor alongside the major.
“Please excuse the men outside,” he said earnestly and in unbroken English. “In a place such as this, it is difficult to maintain discipline.”
“That’s understandable,” Colonel Slayton replied. “Doesn’t it ever occur to your commander to clean up the city?”
“Constantly,” Samad sighed, “but our government needs the money, you see. We are down to the last of our F-117s, which, as you know, Colonel, are badly outdated to begin with. The casino has provided us with enough money to buy advanced antiaircraft weapons and artillery from the French, but new aircraft purchases will require more than mere gambling receipts. And so we tolerate that offense to Allah out there”—he pointed back toward the center of town—“and pray that the Prophet—may his name be blessed and his soul enjoy peace—will forgive us, for we fight in his name, and for the triumph of the true faith in Malaysia.”
Slayton nodded. “How many sorties a day are they throwing at you?”
“We cannot be sure,” Samad answered, “though yesterday we thought we counted at least ninety-seven—” He was interrupted as the sudden sound of crashing bowling pins and very civil applause came echoing down the corridor from somewhere ahead of us. “Ah!” Samad’s face brightened no
ticeably. “The general appears to be doing well!”
The bowling alley that we entered was plushly appointed but nearly deserted. There were two or three groups of guards placed strategically about the large space, and at one pair of lanes another group of very well dressed Malaysian officers stood sipping coffee that evidently came from a large, ornate samovar that stood on the alley’s darkened bar. A small man whose uniform was pressed just a bit more crisply than those of the others, and whose gold braid and insignia glowed noticeably brighter than theirs, stood rolling balls down at the pins in one lane. The man was clearly a beginner, but what he lacked in skill he more than made up for in enthusiasm.
This, Major Samad announced, was General Tunku Said, scourge of Kuala Lumpur and bane of the United Nations. The compact commander, told of our arrival, came bounding over, grinning beneath a well-trimmed mustache and extending his hand to each of us—save Larissa—as we were introduced.
“A terribly amusing game, my infidel friends, this bowling!” he said, speaking in English that was even better than Samad’s. “I am unclear, however, as to its origins—some says it’s a Dutch invention and some that the English devised it. But I suppose it makes no difference, since both were rulers of Malaysia at one time or another!”
An enormous explosion outside suddenly shook the building hard, bringing plaster and concrete dust down from the high ceiling. As more explosions followed, I became possessed by a desire to dive ignominiously under a nearby bench; General Said, however, just stood looking at the ceiling with his hands on his hips. “And now those same Dutch and English bomb us,” he said, both amazed and angry. “And bomb the marvelous buildings that they themselves built throughout our country. Can you imagine it, unbelievers? And for what? For the rain forest? For the oxygen? Nonsense! They are destroying the jungle themselves, and their motive is nothing more than pride, which is a sin before Allah!” He caught himself suddenly. “Oh, please excuse me—coffee, infidels? Tea? Perhaps a game?” We began to move slowly toward the lane where he’d been playing, which several of the soldiers were clearing of rubble and dust. “It is said that the Americans are masters of this sport”—he pointed to a large television above the bar—“and indeed it seems so!” On the huge screen several professional American bowlers were hard at work. “We have the Bowling Channel—do you know it? ‘All bowling, all the time’ is their pledge. Of course, we catch only glimpses, because the Allies are continually jamming—” Just as he said the words, the television screen went snowy. General Said looked for an instant as though he might scream, but he swallowed the outburst and only sighed. “I realize that we are at war, infidels, but I ask you—does this not seem somehow gratuitous?”
Larissa stepped forward. “If you’ll permit me, General, I think I can be of some help.”
This brought a patronizing chuckle out of the general, and the rest of his officers picked up on the laughter. “You really must excuse us, Lady Infidel,” Said managed to say. “It is not your sex that amuses us, although your father or husband or brother must live in a perpetual state of agonizing shame to know that you appear in public as you do. But how can one woman—”
Larissa held a hand up and then turned away, putting the same hand to the collar of her bodysuit and talking too softly to be heard.
General Said gave Colonel Slayton a nod. “Ah. She is favored, then.”
“Favored?” Slayton said.
“By Allah,” Tarbell explained with a smiling nod of his own. “The general thinks that Larissa is feeble-minded.”
General Said shrugged. “She wears the clothes of a man and talks to the air, Dr. Tarbell—can I be wrong?”
“Apparently you can, General,” I said, looking to the television above the bar. “If you’ll just observe . . .” Suddenly the bowling images returned, bringing delighted shouts and more applause from the officers around us. I’d correctly surmised that Larissa had asked Malcolm to use one of the Tressalian satellites to generate a secure signal and beam the Bowling Channel (and how I would have liked to have seen Malcolm’s face when he got that request) down to Kuala Lumpur.
“My distinguished infidel guests!” Said gushed. “This is really too kind—too kind! You have won our friendship, doomed unbelievers though you may be! Tell me, what is it we can do for you? Major Samad says you seek plutonium.”
“Actually, we seek a man,” Tarbell said, pulling out a page of his notes on Eshkol, as well as a photograph of him.
General Said looked confused. “A man? Not plutonium?”
“The man we seek is in the market for plutonium,” Colonel Slayton explained. “And that’s why we’ve come to you.”
For the first time Said looked slightly displeased, as though he suspected what our business actually was. “And what is this man’s name?”
Tarbell handed over the photo and glanced at his notes. “He would be using the name and carrying the identity papers of a man called Vincent Gambon, who once worked for Doctors Without Borders.”
As one, General Said and his officers took a quick step back from us, and their formerly friendly expressions grew hostile. Said put a hand to the sidearm at his waist. “This man Gambon—he is a friend of yours?”
“No,” I said quickly, sensing that the misunderstanding might easily turn fatal. “He’s our enemy. We’re looking for him because he’s stolen something of great importance from us.”
Said’s expression lightened just a bit, and his hand moved away from the gun. “Well, then,” he said, “you may be interested in what I have to show you.”
The general nodded to one of his officers, who led us to a doorway behind the bowling alley’s shoe rental counter. As we reached it I thought I made out the sound of muffled screaming; then the officer threw open the door to the shoe storage and repair room, revealing:
Eshkol. He was tightly gagged and strapped into a heavy wooden chair, with his ankles tied firmly to the chair’s front legs. A rotating electric brush with wire bristles had been positioned beneath his upturned bare feet and was spinning at high speed, slowly tearing the skin away from his flesh. Saliva was coursing down from the corners of Eshkol’s mouth as he continued to scream, and his crazed eyes were opened wide in agony.
When I looked at General Said again, I could no longer see the well-groomed, well-spoken fellow who moments before had so amused me. It was apparent now why he was feared, and all that his continued smiling did was remind me that for centuries Islamic leaders had tortured prisoners in just this manner: by flaying the soles of their feet.
“Here is your enemy!” the general proclaimed proudly. “And it will no doubt please your infidel hearts to know that his death will be a very slow affair!”
C H A P T E R 3 7
I was too stunned to move or speak, and I could see that my three comrades were in roughly the same shape. We’d spent so ma1ny hours preparing ourselves for what we had been sure would be a violent confrontation with Eshkol that discovering him in such a condition—and especially in such a place—left us scrambling to determine our next move. Of course, there was the option of closing the door and letting General Said finish the job he had so enthusiastically started; but for all our recent declarations that Eshkol had to be stopped in a permanent way, I don’t think any of us had the stomach for playing a part in his slow death by torture. Then too, as Malcolm reminded Larissa when she reported in concerning the latest developments, we couldn’t be sure that Eshkol hadn’t told anyone else about the Stalin disc: we needed him to declare those images a hoax to his superiors before he died in order to prevent the propagation of rumors that would likely prove even more troublesome than facts. One by one it dawned on each of us that we were going to have to get him out of that room, that building, and that town; but it was the ever-wily Tarbell, not surprisingly, who grasped that fact first and took hold of the situation.
“Tell me, General,” he said, nonchalantly watching Eshkol writhe in a successful attempt to impress Said. “What exactly has this man
done to you?”
“He is a pig, Dr. Tarbell!” the general declared, spitting on Eshkol. “To begin with, he has stirred trouble for me within my family. He came looking for plutonium and promised a great deal of money for it. Then, on his way here, he murdered the man I had sent to escort him. Why? I cannot say, and he will not.”
“He has killed before, and just as unreasonably,” Tarbell explained. “It is our belief that he seeks to obscure the trail he leaves behind. He may even have tried to kill you, after your business was done.”
“Me?” the general cried, dumbfounded. “Here?”
Tarbell let out a flattering sort of laugh. “Absurd, is it not?”
Said began to laugh along with him. “Yes—absurd! He is a madman, then!” Suddenly the general’s laughter died down, and he looked at Eshkol in an immensely irritated way. “But the chap he murdered, you see, was my wife’s cousin. I had little use for the man, but how does this make me look? Not only to my family, but to that unholy mob outside? Very bad, infidels, very bad. Furthermore”—Said returned to his bowling lane and picked a file up off the scorer’s desk—“we are not without our own ways of gathering intelligence. Were you aware that this enemy of yours is actually a CIA agent?”
The general placed a sheet of printout on a lit area of the desk, at which the contents of the page were projected onto a large screen over the bowling lane. It was indeed a copy of a Central Intelligence file, which stated that an agency operative calling himself Vincent Gambon had infiltrated the Doctors Without Borders field office in the Kurdish sector of Turkey, from which, as I have already noted, Israel was currently drawing a good deal of its water, much to the displeasure of the Turks and their American allies. Here, at least, was the probable reason why Eshkol had killed the real and unfortunate Gambon in the first place, although Said apparently knew nothing about such matters, as his next words demonstrated: “No doubt his actual purpose here was to undermine our hold on this mountain—perhaps by way of the nuclear device we found him carrying!” Said held up a small rucksack that bore the same Doctors Without Borders logo we’d seen on Eshkol’s clothes. “The very device he intended to arm with the plutonium we had agreed to sell him!” With his free hand the general grabbed a metal radioactive materials canister and held it up; then he looked back through the open door of the shoe room. “Oh, this creature’s soul is a pit of evil, infidels, and I intend that he shall regret every minute of his loathsome existence before he dies!”
