by Leo Gher
Next, he looked up at the mezzanine level. There were guards posted at the entrances there as well. Lastly, Jake checked the ceiling and noticed a lighting grid, but saw that no one was manning the center spot. Jake thought that odd because he recognized it to be the president’s spotlight. But at that instant, Guliyev entered the hall from the back of the stage, and the entire assemblage stood up and offered a warm reception for the man of the hour. He walked forward, shaking hands and smiling. Everything seemed routine, but in the back of his mind, Jake’s sixth sense hung on the spotlight operator who was absent from his post.
When the Azeri president passed Conor, Jake’s eyes lingered on his brother, impressed. He has position and respect here in Azerbaijan, he thought. But Jake also worried about how their meeting would go. Will it be a repeat of London? Naturally, Jake’s studied the others seated next to his brother. Nothing unusual. But when he explored the honored visitor’s section behind Conor, he noticed an old man sitting two rows back who looked familiar, but somehow different. Then he saw the cane, and Jake knew it was the vile character that he and Lindy had encountered in London – the one they’d called Old Man Chubby. Jake was shaken to the core, and instantly suspicious. What’s he doing here? He intuitively glanced upward to the lighting grid, to the vulnerability there. A lurking figure was now in position. He had focused the spotlight on the podium and was stepping away and reaching for something that had been placed on the grid.
The Dark Triad’s plan for seizing the Azerbaijani government depended upon simultaneous attacks in Istanbul and Baku. Four opposition Houses would be eliminated in a single evening: the Guliyevs, the Kedars, the Nadirovs, and the Kazimovs. Once Guliyev was dead, VP Viktor Kos would immediately take over as head of the Azeri government.
As always happens, such plans are often tossed to the wind as events unfold. The assassination of Mira Nadirov and Alexandr Kazimov at Turga’s had occurred 90 minutes too early, so the assault on Rolan Guliyev and Azreal Kedar at Government House required fast action before anyone got word of what had happened in Istanbul. Consequently, the killers in Baku were forced to strike faster than they had planned.
President Guliyev had already shuffled up to the microphone and had pulled his speech from his inside jacket pocket. The assassin on the catwalk crouched low to pick up the thing he’d left on the grid – it was a high-powered rifle. Jake recognized the situation. “Assassin!” he cried out, pointing upward to the catwalk and the man in shooting position.
The guards next to the presidential podium reacted instantly. They followed Jake’s hand pointing upward, saw the man with the rifle, and fired. The assassin hadn’t been able to aim his weapon accurately, but he returned fire, though it was entirely unfocused. Every eye in the Assembly Hall fixated on the catwalk as the assassin was hit several times, and then tumbled off the grid and into the air. In the same moment, Guliyev’s bodyguards rushed onto the stage to pull the president out of harm’s way. They began by shielding him from the shooter above and pushing him toward the rear stage exit.
That’s when Old Man Chubby stepped forward. He was the second assassin, meant for Conor, but would now have to take out the president. He jumped in front of Rolan Guliyev as the president came his way, his cane thrusting out like a sword at Guliyev’s chest.
Jake shouted at Conor, “Baol, baol!”
Only another Irishman would know the Gaelic word for danger. Seeing Old Man Chubby advancing on the president, Conor understood the menace at once. He rushed between Guliyev and the would-be hit man wielding the polonium-tipped cane.
Chubby – no longer aged and infirmed, but quick and agile – lunged forward. But Conor was faster. He grabbed the cane with his right hand and spun Old Man Chubby around directly in front of Jake.
The sudden plunge into nonstop action was something Jake had prepared for these past months in Romania. His mind, and more importantly his physical reaction, was swift and precise. Jake’s breathing drew out long, and his heart rate steadied – everything before him was taking place in slow motion – then Jake pulled the Ruger 9mm from his ankle holster.
When Conor forced the assassin to twist around, presenting his full torso, he was an easy target. Jake fired three times, the first striking the man’s shoulder. The bullet shattered the assassin’s arm and forced the release of the weapon. The second and third tore into Old Man Chubby’s torso, and the stopping power of the ARX rounds put him out of action instantly. The firefight ended abruptly when the assassin tumbled off the stage.
Conor was relieved. Both he and the president were unharmed. At least, that’s what he thought as he watched as the guards wrestled Old Man Chubby to the floor below. But then he stared at the cane, realizing it was likely the delivery method for some kind of poison. It appeared that the release mechanism at the tip had been activated. Conor tossed the cane to the floor, and then looked at his hands for a puncture wound. Nothing – God be praised. Then he realized that the abrasion he’d suffered on the Zarifa earlier in the day had been exposed. But now was not the time for worry as the crowd surrounding the president began cheering wildly for the brothers Moynihan. “The Kedar Bey has saved the president!” a man shouted.
Pointing at Jake, Rolan Guliyev responded immediately. “Who is that man, Azreal?”
“My brother.”
“Have him come to my house,” Rolan commanded. “We will celebrate, and then find the culprit behind this murderous plot!”
But Conor was unable to respond. Out of the blue, he felt dizzy and nauseated. He lost his balance, crumpled to the floor, and then began shaking uncontrollably. Guliyev shouted, “Get medics, now!”
Shahin, who had rushed from the hallway, grabbed Jake’s arm, and said, “Let’s get out of here!”
“Not until Conor is safely in an ambulance.” The medics had arrived and saw the convulsions. They quickly cleared Conor’s mouth, but vomit began spewing from the edges. Within a minute, Conor had lapsed into a coma.
“Where will you take him?” Jake asked.
“Central Clinic is only ten minutes away,” the medic replied.
“I know it,” Shahin said. “It’s on Parliament Prospekti, good care.”
“Follow the ambulance, Shahin. I don’t want to lose him.” They watched intently as the paramedics wheeled Conor out of the Assembly Hall.
Central Clinic had a reputation for providing healthcare to special persons – ranking military officers, government officials, and foreign diplomats. It was the best Azerbaijan had to offer. But as the men neared the hospital, Jake recognized it as the same hospital where his father had been treated, the same hospital where Tom Moynihan had suddenly died seven years earlier.
Jake’s face paled, and this time he was unable to control the panic that flooded his soul.
31
Return to London
Conor had been in the isolation ward for more than an hour when Georghe Markirov showed up at the Central Clinic. “The Kedar Bey?” He asked the receptionist.
“Isolation ward,” she pointed down the corridor, “first wing on the right.”
Georghe found Jake and Shahin standing alone at the nurse’s station. “What the hell has happened?”
“Terrorist attack,” Shahin replied. “Two heroes – Conor saved the president’s life, and Jake killed the assassin.” Jake said nothing, his face expressionless.
“And Conor?”
“Just collapsed a minute later,” said Shahin, “and started throwing up.”
President Guliyev, with his entourage in tow, arrived ten minutes later and demanded that he see the head of emergency care immediately. The receptionist gathered everyone together and herded all into a small conference room next to emergency care.
When Dr. Yusif Hasanov entered a few minutes later, Guliyev insisted on an explanation.
“What the hell has happened?”
“It’s a nerve ag
ent,” said the doctor. “We think VX, ricin, or maybe even Po-210. We don’t know for sure.”
“Don’t know? You’re supposed to be the expert.”
“It’s not that easy Mr. President,” Hasanov tried to deflect the President’s fury.
Jake intervened, “I know about VX and ricin, but what is Po-210?”
“Polonium, a rare and extremely radioactive metal,” the doctor replied. “It was probably the element that killed Marie Curie. You know, the scientist.”
“How do you treat the poison?” Markirov asked.
“We can give him supportive care. But without knowing what exactly has caused Azreal’s condition…”
“Supportive care?”
“Helping Azreal breathe, giving him intravenous fluids, flushing the stomach… things like that,” Hasanov said.
“This is life-threatening, then?” Guliyev bellowed.
“We don’t know for sure.”
“Don’t know much, do you, Hasanov?” Shahin yelled. “Bull shit!”
The president turned to Georghe, and asked, “What would you have us do, Markirov Bey?”
“If Mira were here, or Tali,” Georghe mused. “We could…”
“Where are they?” Jake asked.
“Returning from Istanbul,” said Shahin.
Rolan explained, “Tali was my delegate at the Asian conference.”
“They should have returned by now. Something’s wrong.”
“Could be a coordinated attack,” General Aslan suggested.
“Without Mira and Tali here,” Markirov stated, “the decision falls
to Jake.”
“What about Rufet?”
“Rufet is dead, Mr. President,” replied the Markirov Bey. Jake was startled by the comment but said nothing for the moment.
“Hasanov, where is the best treatment center for such poisons?”
“London, Mr. President. University College Hospital, they have treated numerous similar cases.”
Jake agreed, “Alexander Litvinenko, for example.” Get Conor out of this damn hospital, out of this damn country, that’s what Jake thought and wanted to hear.
“Then it is off to London if that’s your decision, Jake.” The President glanced at his military attaché.
“We can have a plane ready in one hour.”
At eight the next morning, the Lear 65, with Conor, Jake, Shahin, Georghe Markirov, and the airborne medical staff onboard, was less than three hours from London. President Guliyev had ordered a medically configured aircraft from MedAsiaEvac. The Lear 65 had a max cruise speed of 520 mph and range up to 2,113 km, so it had to refuel in Istanbul. They now had another 1900 km before reaching England so the jet would be landing on fumes when it arrived at London City Airport.
“You said Rufet Qurb was dead,” Jake asked, “how do you know this?”
“Conor received a message from Sam.”
“Sam Mansour?”
“Yes,” replied Georghe. “Sam found Qurb in Turkey. He said he was assassinated.”
Jake reacted callously, “Good, it will save me the trouble.”
Georghe Markirov, who had known Qurb for more than 30 years, was taken aback by young Moynihan’s crudeness, “You are wrong about Rufet,” he said. “He saved Conor’s life more than once, and your father’s life as well.”
“Not the way I saw it seven years ago,” Jake insisted. “He and that damned Seymur Rasuli were part of the plot.”
“Rasuli is a different matter,” Georghe insisted. “That one has always worked for the clan or gang that paid him the most.”
“I visited him today,” Jake said, “not worth killing. He’s crippled and confined to a wheelchair.”
“A gunfight with Chechnyan henchmen last year. I know of your visit, Jake. Shahin told me.”
“Did he also tell you that I dug up my father’s bones? I found the skull.”
“Of course, he told me,” Georghe said. “Desecration, Jake. Why do you so shame the dead?”
“I plan to give my father a Christian burial, Markirov.”
“Will you shame your brother at the same time?”
“Don’t know him that well.”
“It is a betrayal of family, whether you know them or not.”
Jake was startled by the Markirov attack. Unfazed, Jake followed on, “You sound like an American politician. Treason is their preferred policy.”
“No House can endure treachery from within,” Markirov declared. “That is the greatest message of last night’s attack.”
“You know the culprit, then?”
“The villain from within moves freely, his hand close to the seat of power, encouraged by a gathering of miscreants and ambitious fools.”
“Then only a purge will do,” Jake concluded.
“Better we face the Armenians. We can survive the enemy outside the gate, but not the man with the sly tongue and vile purpose,” said Georghe Markirov. “The infection within is the Dark Triad, and it has made its move. But thanks to you, Jake, it has failed.”
“What will Guliyev do?”
“General Aslan watches everything. He took notice of the assassin with Vanya Kos last night. The attack on Guliyev was supposed to be subtle – just a pinprick, no one would suspect an old man – but he botched the job.”
“My brother would say otherwise.”
“Guliyev will have his revenge. If Vanya has survived the night, he will face Aslan’s men and their enhanced interrogation in the coming days.”
At that moment, the nurse entered the cabin, “The Kedar Bey is awake.” Georghe and Jake dashed for the nursing station at the front of the Lear 65.
“Conor,” Markirov said. “Awake at last.” The medical cabin was filled with equipment, so it was a tight fit for the men, besides the doctor and nurse.
“Dr. Hasanov tells me we are traveling to London.” Conor’s normally healthy, suntanned cheeks had turned pale, his eyes swollen, and crusty splotches of dried blood were evident inside his nose. The nurse was swabbing away the scabs and moistening his lips as he spoke. “I don’t remember what happened, just hearing gunshots.”
Dr. Hasanov intervened, “Not too much detail, we’ve got to keep him calm.”
“Assassins tried to kill Guliyev,” said Markirov. “But you and Jake stopped them.”
“I want to talk to Jake alone. Everyone out.” Before Dr. Hasanov left, he advised Jake to make it short. They had to monitor his vitals and make sure his liver and kidneys were functioning properly. Jake understood.
“They’re gone,” he said as he pulled up a chair next to Conor’s bed.
“Look, Jake, Hasanov says I have all the symptoms of radiation poisoning.”
“Yeah, he mentioned Polonium-210. Bad stuff that.”
“Did Tali get back from Istanbul okay?”
“Don’t know for sure. We left ASAP. But I expect she’s back by now. Your driver guy…”
“David.”
“Yeah, David. He was waiting at the airport,” said Jake. “As soon as we land, I’ll check on it, and let you know.”
“Thanks, Jake… I love her you know.”
“I get that.”
“Dr. Hasanov says this poisoning could be bad, really bad.” Conor was having breathing difficulties, so he had to speak in spurts. “He said it’s fatal in most cases, even with the best of care.”
“But that’s why we’re heading to London. They’ll pull you through. It’s not like that goddamn hospital in Baku.”
Suddenly, Conor realized what was on Jake’s mind. “I know what you’re thinking. That’s where father died. I’ve always felt guilty about it; should have gotten him to a better place for better care.”
“What do you mean, you felt guilty?”
“I was absent when I was needed most,” Conor
replied. “I was in the wilderness, confronting my Uncle Elshan. You didn’t know him. He hated Tom Moynihan fiercely. Tom chased him down, arrested him, and then sent him off to prison.”
“So, it was the Kedar family that killed father.”
“It was Elshan, not the family,” Conor choked out the confession. “I killed Elshan for what he did to Tom and my mother.
“You killed the head of your House?”
“Actually, it was Rufet Qurb that wielded the knife. He had always loved Zarifa, and was happy to end the evil man’s life on my behalf.”
At that moment, the nurse interrupted again, “Mr. Moynihan, we have got to check his vital signs.”
“Not now,” Conor yelled. “I will let you know when I want you.”
“You have to forget that episode, Jake. It’s water under the bridge.” Then Conor changed the subject. “As I said, I may not survive this. The doctor says there may be bone marrow loss, DNA problems, immune deficiencies, organ damage; all kinds of bad things.”
“You are not going to…”
“Listen, Jake. I need your help.”
“Okay, I’m listening.”
“You must take care of Tali.”
It was the last thing Jake expected, “Doesn’t seem like she needs
my help.”
“Well, not in the Western sense. But in Azerbaijan, it is different. A woman cannot lead the clan.”
“We are from two different worlds,” Jake said.
“Muslim men are permitted to marry four wives. But it doesn’t happen very often these days. One or two are always marriages of convenience. Even I may have to marry for political reasons, one day.”
Starting to feel differently, Jake smiled at his brother. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not Muslim.”
“Neither was our father, but Tom loved Zara, and he married her.”
