by Leo Gher
“How many dead?”
“I have no idea. About half of the garrison, I guess. There’s more. Worse.”
“More casualties?”
“Eight schoolkids were killed,” the bellman said. “Some of the drones lost power and fell on a playground. The kids thought they were toys. The damn things exploded when they picked them up.” There were other fatalities as well. All told, some 30 civilians had died that afternoon. The VDW’s ideal technology and perfect military tactics weren’t so flawless after all.
To Tad Tadesian, the drone strike seemed to have little risk and a big reward. When it was over, however, the battle of Kars Castle looked just like any other war to the experienced fighters of the Vartan Defense Wing.
30
The Brothers Moynihan
It was morning, half-past ten when the black limo pulled up to the parameter gate at the cottage on the hill. The driver entered the code and then proceeded to the parking area.
Jake was waiting. It was finally time. He picked up his duffel bag and carried it to the kitchen table. Next, he removed his black-and-silver shoulder bag, and then his Ruger 9mm and the two magazines of ARX bullets. The ARX rounds were unique, designed to inflict immense shock and tissue damage to fleshy targets. He shoved the automatic in his ankle holster under his right pant-leg and then hid a second magazine inside his waistline.
The priceless trophy that Jake had uncovered the night before, a half-rotted skull, was securely packaged in a container on the table. The shipping address was marked: Jake Moynihan, Port Authority, Chicago, USA. I’ll send it priority UPS, he thought, and if all goes well, it will arrive about the same time I do. Then Jake placed the box into his duffel bag. He was ready. He threw his duffel over his shoulder and left via the kitchen, locking the cottage as he departed.
“Moynihan,” the driver shouted as he got out of the car, “over here!” It was Shahin, but he was in a different car, his grandfather’s Mercedes Maybach S700. “The old man said, ‘Take my car.’ It has diplomatic plates, and no one questions or stops us.”
“Are you expecting problems?” Jake asked.
“Troubled times. Don’t know what to expect.” Taking Jake’s duffel, he opened the backseat door for Jake. Afterward, he tossed the bag into the trunk. Jake winced.
“How long’s the trip?”
“Just 60 kilometers to the Zümrә Estates. That’s where Kedar Bey lives,” Shahin said, “about 60 minutes if traffic isn’t backed up.” Jake was leaving the cottage for the last time; or at least, that’s what he thought. But a few minutes down the road, Jake recognized the place where he’d made his promise years before. “Stop here, Shahin, will ya?” There was no traffic, so it didn’t matter whether Shahin pulled off the road or just came to a stop.
“What’s a mistake, Mr. Jake… remember something?”
“This is where we stopped. Seymur was driving me to the airport.”
“Seymur Rasuli?”
Jake stepped out of the car to gaze back at Gobustan Hill. He remembered the moment; it seemed so long ago. The carpenters were working on the walls, and a truck was unloading the two saplings. Jake looked intently at the now fully-grown trees. They stretched upwards against the sky and were as tall as the cottage. Jake was satisfied – he had fulfilled his promise to rescue his father’s bones.
But he had also sworn to challenge his brother about Tom’s death. He felt unsure of his next step. He knew little to nothing about Conor or his clan, or Muslims in general. Then there was the matter of Rufet Qurb and Seymur Rasuli. They were free, as best he knew, and their crimes had been forgotten. Revenge, he mused, but how?
“Yes, Rasuli. Do you know where he lives?”
Shahin Markirov glanced into the rearview mirror. He was uncertain of Jake’s motives. “He’s not a man you trust.”
“But do you know where he lives?”
“Yes, near the Baku Shipyard,” Shahin replied. “It’s on the way.”
“Take me there, Shahin,” Jake demanded. “I’ll pay you $50.” Ten minutes later, they were on the main highway speeding towards the little town of Tanta, where the Baku Shipyard was located on the Caspian Sea.
When Georghe Markirov called Conor earlier that morning, he told his nephew that Shahin would be dropping off Jake no later than 12:30. “Shahin can pick up Mira and Tali if you like,” the old man said.
“I’ve already sent David to the airport, but thanks anyway.” Actually, Conor had no idea when Tali and Mira would arrive. They had said they’d be home sometime Sunday. If they decided to go shopping, David might have a long wait. It had happened before.
“Parliament opens this afternoon, right?”
“Yes, six pm.”
“I’ll text Shahin and tell him to stick around,” Markirov said. “Besides, he would rather be in Baku than here in Gobustan.”
“That sounds fine. Shahin can hang out here or at the Bay Club.”
It was early afternoon when Sam Mansour sent a confidential text to Conor: “Arrved Tbilisi this PM. Got out of Kars jst in time.”
Conor replied: “Just in time???”
“Spotted foreign fighters headed to Armenia. Ali says something’s up.”
“Who is Ali?”
“Ali Tabak. Rufet’s hunting guide last autumn.”
Conor explained:” I met Tali for holiday in Istanbul, Rufet stayed behind in Kars.”
There was a long pause at Sam’s end, then: “I have bad news… no easy way to say this. Rufet Qurb is dead.”
Conor closed his eyes. It was not surprising, though he had not allowed the notion of Rufet’s death to enter his mind until that very moment. He then asked the critical question: “How?”
Sam: “Assassination!”
“Assassination?” Conor was puzzled. “Why?”
The Bey of House Kedar had much to think about, but his two life-long counselors were not on hand to help. Maybe that was it, Conor guessed, to isolate me from Mira and Rufet. Now he hoped Mira would be home soon. Conor replied: “You know this how?”
“Two bullet wounds found – .30 caliber cartridges. Ali alleges from a Dragunov sniper rifle.”
“Where?”
“Hunting on the mountain. Ali fond Rufet alive, but in bad shape… nursed him back, but he died 2-3 weeks ago in Kars. Buried there.”
“Does he know who did it?”
“Ali thinks it was House Kos. During his short recovery, Rufet revealed many secrets about the Dark Triad, their motives, their plans, and their hideaways.”
“Bastards,” Conor typed. “Sam, FYI, Jake is here, says he wants to talk.”
“About what?”
“Don’t know, exactly.”
“Be careful, Conor. Could be trouble. I’ll call you soon… after we’re settled in.”
Then Conor relayed the good news: “Tali’s coming home today, or maybe tomorrow. We’ll be at the Zümrә residence for the next few days. Call anytime.”
“Will do. Much to discuss.”
Conor felt he needed something to settle his nerves, so he walked to the kitchen to make tea. But as he was filling the pot with water, he was startled. Outside his garden apartment window, he was bowled over by the sight of thousands of dark red flower petals swirling across the yard. He didn’t understand, so he stepped through the connecting door into the sunroom. At once, he faced a stout wind blowing away the entire season of delicate puffs of the Persian ironwood trees.
There was a sound to it, a whirling swish. In Azerbaijan, from childhood onward, most residents develop a keen eye and a natural concern about the arrival of such winds. When the Khazri reaches 90 mph, not only can it destroy hearth and home, but it also can peel off skin or blind a person if coarse desert sands are part of its fury. The high-pitched howl is a warning to all: take shelter now.
For Conor, the untamed winds had
always been an obsession, particularly the strange whirrs and shrieks they made. There was something profoundly moving about the sound of Oriental hornbeams in the wind, or the whistling hullabaloo of jingling stones on the desert uplift, or the soft sighs of Gilavar as summer overcame the wild moods of winter.
Suddenly, Conor heard a limb breaking. His eyes darted upward to the high boughs of the Cappadocian maples. They were swaying and rolling in uneven circles, the big branches moaning and cracking. Then his attention turned to the boat dock. He could see the Zarifa rocking up and down in the choppy waters.
Got to move her inside, he decided. So, he stepped outside, went around the corner, and raced to the caretaker’s apartment. Conor banged on the door, but there was no answer. He’s out, cleaning up after last night’s storm, he thought. Now what? Got to do it yourself, city boy.
As he reached the dock, the side gusts had turned into a steady blow. Just getting aboard the pitching and bucking cruiser would be difficult. He decided to jump the gap and catch part of the rigging, hoping not to break a leg in the process. It worked, but not without injury. When he sprang across, he missed the first hold and scraped his hand and wrist against a cable. It left a raw ten-inch abrasion on his wrist, something like a rope burn. For the moment, however, the adrenalin rush was enough to mask the pain.
Next, he scrambled up the ladder to the pilothouse and started the engine. It roared to life, as angry as the surrounding sea. After he cast off the lines, Conor eased the Zarifa away from the dock and into the Caspian. The boathouse was only 20 feet away, but he’d forgotten to open the automatic roll-up door. Stupid! He cursed himself, back to the pier. But the sea had a different idea. Without warning, the wind shifted and pulled the cruiser out to deeper water. Off the shoreline, an outcropping of massive barrier rocks loomed. The choppiness made the boat hard to control, and because Conor still had the gear in reverse when he gunned the engine, the Zarifa crashed into one unusually large boulder. “Goddammit!” he cursed. He struggled to get the driveshaft into the right gear, and a moment later, found forward and cleared the rock field. But the cruiser had already begun taking on water.
“Kedar Bey, Kedar Bey!” screamed a man on the dock. It was John, the caretaker. He had already raised the sea access and was motioning for Conor to bring the Zarifa into the boathouse. Ten minutes later, the men had engaged the hydraulic hoists, and the cruiser was safe but badly in need of repair.
“Glad you spotted me. I was just about to lose her.”
“It was the damn winds, Kedar Bey, not your fault.”
“The squalls are always after me,” Conor mused. “It wasn’t the winds, John, but my own stupidity.”
“You go back to the residence. I’ll close up and make everything safe and sound.” Conor nodded in agreement.
But before he started back, he turned to face the sea again. The winds howled, and Conor thought, you old devil. His cheekiness lasted only a second. He was exhausted, so turned away and headed for home. “John, I will need you in about an hour. Come to the apartment when you are finished.” The caretaker shook his head, okay.
Ninety minutes later, John drove up to Conor’s apartment, parked the car, and waited. It was late afternoon, and the Kedar Bey could no longer put off his departure for the opening of Parliament. Conor got in and slammed the car door behind, then the caretaker asked, “Government House, sir?”
“Right,” Conor replied. “I will need you tonight, John.”
“No problem, sir, I’m free all evening.”
“My brother will arrive here sometime soon, but I’m not sure exactly when. Shahin Markirov is bringing him in from Gobustan.”
“Understood.”
“When he gets here, I want you to bring him directly to the Milli Majlis Assembly Hall. He doesn’t speak Azeri, and you will need to help him to get through security.”
“How will I recognize him?”
“The eyes, John, cerulean blue like mine. He’s American, tall, broad shoulders, about 220 pounds.”
“And he’ll be with Shahin.”
“That’s right.” Conor reached over the front seat and handed John a ticket. “This is his seat in the front row,” he added. “It’s right next to the podium. Make sure he finds it.”
“Understood.”
Vanya Kos, the newly installed Azeri Minister of Oil, walked into the Assembly Hall with a stranger. Obviously, a guest, he seemed quite elderly, and moved totteringly, using a cane. Vanya explained, “This is where members of our Parliament meet on opening day.”
The portly visitor peered over his old-fashioned Roosevelt glasses, and asked, “Will your father be seated with the President?” It was a curious question.
“The Vice President is the acting head of the Milli Majlis, and therefore sits with the members on the other side with the assembly.” The two men passed the security guards at the base of the stage. An officer approached to ask for IDs, but Kos waved him off and began helping the older man up the three steps to the platform.
“Good,” the man replied. “And you?”
“I will be seated with the other ministers two rows behind the President. The row directly behind Guliyev is reserved for his guests and special dignitaries.”
“And where will I be seated?”
“Directly behind me, in the honored visitors’ section.”
At room temperature, polonium-210 is solid silver metal, and one of the most lethal materials known in the world of assassins. Oddly, it isn’t hazardous to transport, because any thin barrier can easily impede its high-energy radiation; even 24-pound paper will do. Furthermore, it is almost impossible to detect, because only a microgram is required to kill a man. These are valuable advantages for any would-be poisoner to have.
Delivering a fatal body blow with Po-210, however, isn’t so easy. The poison must be introduced to the victim’s body by inhalation, ingestion, or through a skin abrasion or puncture wound. Because the killer must get close to the victim, the assassin must also be a crafty stalker or must employ some ruse that would make the killing event seem normal.
After Vanya’s guest had been seated with other guests, one of the aides came by and asked, “May I take your cane, sir?” The young woman was reaching for it as she spoke.
“Don’t touch it!” the fellow reacted, snatching it back quickly.
Vanya looked at the young woman, “He may need it later. He’s an old man; you know, to go to the bathroom.”
At that split second, Vanya glanced over the aide’s shoulder and saw the Kedar Bey approaching. Kos extended his hand, “My friend, Azreal.” Conor’s eyes turned steely cold as he passed. Then he noticed the chubby man seated at the end of the row. He looked familiar. The round, black-framed glasses struck a chord, but nothing came to mind in that instant. Conor walked to his seat behind the President. Still curious, a few minutes later, he twisted around to eyeball Kos’s guest one more time. Yes, he recalled, At Kazimov’s party in London. Jake pointed him out, and then Conor wondered, What business does that man have here tonight?
Shahin and Jake arrived at the Zümrә residence at precisely 5:35 pm. John was waiting as instructed. “Markirov,” he said, “the Kedar Bey has asked me to take Mr. Moynihan directly to Government House.”
“Why not me?”
“I have his ticket,” the caretaker replied, “and the Kedar Bey’s instructions.”
“I will take him!” Shahin demanded. “I have régime clearance and can get right through the security gate.”
John didn’t argue. “Yes, Mr. Markirov.” He was just a caretaker, and Shahin was family.
“You stay here and wait for Tali and Mira,” Shahin said. “Bring them to Milli Majlis if they arrive in time. Otherwise, get the apartment ready. They will be tired, and maybe want something to eat. “
Disguised as maintenance staff, two men approached the entrance to the catw
alk above the Assembly Hall. They carried a replacement light fixture and a bag of tools. A single security guard, patrolling the mezzanine hallway there, stopped them at the door. “Just where do you think you’re going?” he demanded.
“The president’s spotlight has failed,” the taller man said. “We have instructions to replace it.” Then he showed the officer the work order.
The military guard called his supervisor and got the go-ahead. “Okay,” he said, “but you must finish before Guliyev comes on stage.” Both men nodded and then proceeded to the access. The officer clicked on his walkie-talkie and reported, “They said it should be a simple repair and be done in five minutes, over and out.” After the access door closed, the shorter of the men reached over a large girder and found a hidden case of armaments. Two minutes later, one of the repairmen walked up to the spotlight operator stationed 30 feet above the main floor, “My friend has hurt himself, can you help me?” They walked the catwalk back out of sight, and that’s when the operator felt a pistol pushed against his kidneys.
“Take off your shirt,” the man demanded. They exchanged shirts and caps, and then the second man said, “If you want to live, do as you are told.” The spotlight operator was entirely compliant. Three minutes later, two repairmen left the catwalk. “We’re done,” said the same tall man as he turned to the security officer.
“All clear up here,” the officer messaged his supervisor.
Shahin and Jake entered the floor of Parliament at 5:55 pm. After finding Jake’s seat, Shahin caught Conor’s attention and signaled that Jake had arrived. Conor acknowledged Shahin and then sent a thumbs-up to his brother. Shahin said, “I cannot sit with you, Jake, but I’ll be in the hallway during Guliyev’s address.”
“Thanks, Shahin.”
“I’ll find you and Conor after it’s over.”
As was his practice, before he sat down Jake surveyed his surroundings for any tactical vulnerabilities. He was seated at the corner of the stage and had a perfect view of the presidential podium. Two armed guards were stationed up front, but no others were nearby. There were four entrances, and each was secured by military police. The ground level was secure.
