IMPRESSION: major blowout in the sigmoid colon due to toxin-induced hemorrhagic necrosis.
“Sounds pretty bad,” Tower had to admit. “What’s all that jargon mean?”
“It means I fried the inside of Conley’s intestines like they were kolbasa and eggs—for five straight hours,” Putilov roared. “That autopsy means Conley died a thousand deaths!”
“Jesus,” Tower muttered under his breath, clearly stunned.
“I thought you’d be pleased,” Putilov said.
“I am,” Tower said nervously. “It’s just a little late here in the Big Apple. I’m still kind of groggy.”
“Understood. I just wanted to share the good news with someone who’d appreciate it.”
“And I do,” Tower said. “Does this poison have a name?”
“Of course,” Putilov said. “I named the toxin myself. I call it Cmeptb-Ha-Koctpe.”
“I don’t speak Russian,” Tower said.
“The phrase means ‘Death-by-Fire’ in your language,” Putilov said. “It means I put a blowtorch to Conley’s innards.”
“That certainly sounds … intense,” Tower said, not knowing what to say.
“People better take notice,” Putilov said. “From now on, anyone who wants to fuck with Mikhail Ivanovich Putilov ought to think about what happened to Nemerov, Kazankov and Conley. They ought to think long and hard.”
“I certainly would,” Tower said with surprising sincerity.
Then Putilov’s laughter brayed mule-like in Tower’s ears until finally the Russian leader put down the phone.
Frozen in his chair, Tower stared at the autopsy report on his computer screen, aghast at the sheer horror and the unspeakable sadism of Putilov’s revenge.
At the same time he couldn’t help but be impressed. No one could doubt that Putilov was effective and knew what he was doing. In fact, Tower had a couple of people he’d like to settle up with, and Putilov was a dyed-in-the-wool expert on settling scores.
He wondered if Putilov would loan him a couple of vials of that poison.
3
“We can’t ever understand. We just tourists.”
—An anonymous merc
Elena sat in the first Black Hawk with eight of the men. They were on a Pakistani helipad outside of Peshawar.
Karim climbed into the chopper. He hadn’t been in Belfast at the bar, but he was here now. He was dressed in black fatigues like the rest of them. He wore the white cap of a man who’d done the Mecca hajj and gazed on the Kaaba, the Black Rock, the holy of holies. He took it off, stuffed it into a cargo pocket on his right leg, pulled a black watch cap out of another cargo pocket and put it on his head. He sat down on one of the jump seats. He would serve as their translator if they needed one.
His white cap bothered Elena. They did not need someone who’d just found Allah.
“Glad you could make it,” Elena said, “but you understand what we’re doing?”
“An extraction,” Karim said.
“And we may have to kill some people,” Elena said, “getting Rashid out.”
“What’s your question?” Karim asked.
“Well,” Elena said, “does Allah countenance the killing of Muslims?”
“If they’re apostate motherfuckers he sure do,” Jonesy said.
“That how you feel?” Elena asked Karim, ignoring Jonesy.
He nodded his agreement.
“So you can accept Muslim blood on your hands?” Elena said.
“Better than my blood on theirs,” Karim said.
He buckled himself into the Black Hawk.
“Everyone’s there?” Elena said into her wrist mike to Adara, who was with the men in the other Black Hawk.
“Roger that,” Adara answered in her earpiece from the other chopper.
“Then let’s rock on out of here,” Elena said.
The rotor turned, and her chopper lifted off. Despite the helicopter’s deafening roar, Elena could hear the men talking around her. Only bits and pieces of the conversation came through, but still she listened to them absently, not really thinking or paying attention, not even trying to identify the speakers.
“What a sorry bunch of assholes.”
“Sorry you signed on?”
“Sorry I ever heard about it.”
“Where’s Johnny D.?”
“Choir practice?”
“Maybe he lost his way to the can.”
“Is Leon on board?”
“Sir, yes, sir!”
“We could all be killed.”
“Then I’ll see your ass in hell.”
“Humdililah.” Praise be to God. Elena recognized Karim’s voice.
“What’s that?”
“A prayer for the dying,” someone said.
“Have you made your peace with darkness?”
“Made my peace with your pussy ass.” Sounded like Jonesy but she wasn’t sure with the rotor.
“I’m just twistin’ the dials on you, sucka.”
“Twist this, bitch.”
“That’s what I tell yo’ mama when she suckin’ my dick.”
“Why do they do this shit anyway?”
“You can’t explain it. You gotta live it.”
“I don’t wanna know why they did it, and I sure as shit don’t wanna live it. I only wanna know why they do it now.”
“We can’t ever understand. We just tourists.”
“You trip that shit?”
“High and hard.”
“How’s it hangin’, homes?”
“Bangin’ hard, rollin’ heavy, still beatin’ the clock.”
“Ain’t a wrong thang to put on your scorecard.”
“Just rattlin’ the bars on your baboon cage.”
“I be sincere in my disinterest.”
“I’ll be. A gen-u-wine swinging dick.”
“What did happen to Johnny D. anyway?”
“Got caught in the headlights.”
“Then there it is.”
“There it is, sports fans. There it is indeed.”
The two Black Hawks roared through the night.
4
“How can the jihad end? To reach an end is to make a beginning.”
—Fahad al-Qadi
Haddad was parked in the van in front of the machine shop when Fahad and the two machinists walked out of the shop and up to his car wearing dirty greasy coveralls and work boots. Both the machinists were clean, closely shaven and had their hair colored a light brown. Still Haddad knew they were from the Mideast.
He got out and opened a back door for Fahad, but when the two men walked to the car, Fahad didn’t bother to get out. He talked to the men through the open window.
“With a little luck, I should see you two back here in four days.” Fahad said. “You on top of everything?”
“We got it, boss,” the taller of the two men, Mukhtar, said.
“See that the dual-beam laser welder is ready to go. We’ll put the final touches on it Wednesday night.”
“It’s been a long time coming,” Ramzi, the shorter one, said. “Do you think this could be the blow that rids our land of the Infidel forever?”
“The hard truth is,” Fahad said, “the jihad never ends—not until the Final Day when Allah calls us all home. This attack will make a difference though, a major difference.”
“But it won’t end the Infidel Crusade?” Mukhtar asked Fahad.
“Perhaps not, but it may well mark the beginning of our New Crusade:”
“Then the struggle never ends?” Ramzi asked.
“How can the jihad end?” Fahad explained. “To reach an end is to make a beginning.”
“Then why do we do it?” Mukhtar asked.
“Because it is Allah’s will and our way,” Fahad said.
“Until Allah calls us home?” Ramzi asked.
“Until Allah calls us home,” Fahad said.
“La illahah illalah,” Mukhtar said. Let us renew our faith in Allah.
“Bsimi
llah,” Ramzi said. In the name of Allah.
“Just remember,” Fahad said, “when I come back, it’ll be an all-night job. So get some sleep.”
“I doubt that we can,” Mukhtar said. “We’ve waited so long.”
“This is so wonderful, my friend,” Ramzi said, his eyes actually tearing over. “It’s like a dream. I can’t believe it’s finally real.”
“Oh, it’s real,” Fahad said, offering them a small dreamy smile.
“Thank you so much for letting us help,” Mukhtar said.
“Jazak Allahu khair,” Fahad said. May Allah reward you for your kind words.
“Fi Amanullah,” Ramzi said. May Allah protect you on your journey.
Fahad climbed into the backseat.
“Where to?” Haddad asked.
“To the city,” Fahad said.
Then to hell, Haddad thought to himself, almost shaking with fear and dread. Then another thought hit him, an injunction: Don’t do it. Drop Fahad off, then drive like a maniac as far from this nightmare horror show as your money will take you.
But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. One look at Fahad’s eyes, and he could see that the man read his mind, his fear. Haddad also knew he could never run far enough or fast enough to escape Fahad’s wrath.
He would have to carry this one out to the bitter end.
5
“In a closed society, where everybody’s guilty, the only crime is getting caught. In a world of thieves, the only final sin is stupidity.”
—Hunter S. Thompson
Putilov’s hands shook as he hurled the phone at its rack. It bounced off its cradle and hit the floor with a resounding, rattling crash.
Tower had just been whining and sniveling to him, muttering:
“Putie, old comrade, the public will never know how lonely men like you and me are. They will never understand how difficult it is making ‘the tough decisions.’ Still we have to be brave, we have to bear up and brazen it out. We can’t show the feather. We can’t flinch or quiver.”
What kind of “tough decisions” did that imbecile make in the course of his day? Whether to pay the whore for a straight lay, a half-and-half or cough up enough scratch for some knock-me-down, drag-me-out, scorchingly, howlingly hellish, mind-blowingly hot … screaming skull—the kind that made the recipient bay at the moon like a rabidly deranged dog? Those were the only decisions idiots like Tower worried about. That asshole knew nothing about truly “tough decisions.”
Putilov sure did, and just thinking about some of the horrible things he’d had to do jangled his nervous system like it was an out-of-tune glockenspiel being pounded to pieces by a crazed ape. The only thing that calmed him down anymore was a bong full of desomorphine. He had one in his locked desk drawer, ready and waiting to be filled with Everclear, ether and gasoline and then fired up. He could see he was going to need it. He was now flashing back to what was arguably the most difficult and consequential decision of his entire life.
* * *
It had taken place eight years after the USSR had broken up. The economy was in the dumper after the banking crisis of 1998, and the whole country was a disaster area. The Afghan and Chechen wars had slaughtered, wounded and mentally maimed Russian soldiers by the hundreds of thousands. Furthermore, it had devastated the economy. That the people would be turning on the officials and politicians was only natural, and since he had been Yeltsin’s prime minister, had replaced him and would now be running for President Yeltsin’s vacated office, he was a target. His approval ratings sank to 2 percent. Even worse, he and his cohorts were clearly culpable for much of the country’s economic deprivation and social unrest; there was no getting around it. He and his entourage had broken so many laws of God and man that if he was defeated in the election and if a reformist regime ever took over, he and his criminal cronies could all end up spending the rest of their days toiling in the Gulag Archipelago’s slave-labor mines. Putilov’s first term in office looked to be his last term ever, and he was fighting for his life. He was like one of the cornered rats he’d fought as a child, and he’d learned back then that cornered rats will leap at their opponents’ eyes.
Now Putilov was looking for an eye to leap at.
Then late one night—while he was worried sick and couldn’t sleep—he picked up a copy of Robert Waite’s acclaimed study of Hitler, The Psychopathic God. At one point Waite described how Hitler—in order to seize dictatorial control of Germany—had contrived to set fire to the German Reichstag. Blaming it on the insurgent Communists, he convened the German parliament, surrounded them with his armed contingent of brown-shirted, jackbooted thugs, declared a national emergency and proclaimed himself military dictator of Germany and the German people.
Putilov realized he could do the same thing.
He called together his most trusted KGB—now the FSB—advisers and planned for the clandestine bombing of four square blocks of Russian apartment complexes in four major cities, including Moscow, and in three of the cities he’d succeeded.
He remembered again his demolition of those complexes: How his munitions experts strategically placed a third of a ton or more of RDX explosive under each of the buildings’ most critical support beams so that their destruction would shatter the buildings’ underpinnings and collapse … everything. He took down three city blocks of apartment buildings as if they were houses of cards.
It was an act of terrorism unique in the annals of history. Hitler, when he planned the Reichstag fire, had ordered it for a time when it was relatively empty; he killed or injured no one during that fire. Other tyrants, particularly in the Mideast, had ordered innocents murdered en masse during uprisings and civil conflicts, but those men were fighting in a time of war to stay in power. Putilov might have become the only despot in history who killed and injured over 1,300 innocent people simply to gain dictatorial power over a nation.
Of course, two vexing questions about Putilov’s apartment bombings troubled Russia and the world. RDX explosive was manufactured only in a single, government-protected plant in Perm—how so much explosive could vanish undetected from that site was a question Putilov could never adequately answer. Critics suggested he couldn’t explain the RDX’s disappearance because he was the one who had stolen it.
The blasts hit Buynaksk, Moscow and Volgodonsk on 16 September. Another RDX device was found and defused in an apartment block in the Russian city of Ryazan around the same time.
Of course, the facts of the case were damning in the extreme. Any number of reporters, including Anna Politkovskaya and her editor, Yuri Shchekochikhim, wrote that Putilov was responsible for the bombings and that he set them off to divert the electorate from their economic woes. Even worse, police had captured a cadre of FSB officers in the act of sowing one of the apartment complexes with explosive devices. Putilov quickly fabricated a story that the men had been on “a training exercise.”
To his eternal amazement, the vast majority of the Russian public never blamed him. The Russian people had bought his laughable lie, and he’d realized at that point that they were even stupider than he had believed. God, Putilov thought, looking back on those grim times, could the Russian people really be that dumb? He began referring to them in private as “credulous cretins” and “our teeming hordes of Russian retards.” Still he had learned a valuable truth: He could make the vast majority of the Russian people believe anything.
The decades passed, but still the eyewitness testimony and evidence of FSB foul play would not go away. The charges against him came to a head when Alexander Litvinenko, an FSB—formerly the KGB—defector became the first and the most credible of the top officials to accuse Putilov of organizing the apartment bombings, saying Putilov was personally responsible for the premeditated slaughter of 300 innocent Russians and the injuring over 1000 more. Litvinenko would even report and substantiate that Putilov also organized the Dubrovka Theater and the 2004 Beslan school assaults, again killing and injuring well over a thousand people, hundreds of them ch
ildren.
Then that bitch Anna Politkovskaya had rounded up eyewitnesses implicating him in those three attacks, as had Marina Salye, who had been investigating him for criminal activities since his days in St. Petersburg back in the ’80s. What was with those women anyway? Even after he’d had them taken out, they still pissed him off. He’d had Anna Politkovskaya killed on his fifty-fourth birthday as a special present to himself, but he still couldn’t get over his rage at her. Just hearing her name drove him around the bend. His hatred of Marina Salye also knew no bounds; killing her had not alleviated his fury one iota.
Of course, there was no question that the en masse killings had been worth the flack he’d taken afterward. By blaming both incidents and the apartment bombings on Chechen separatists, Putilov had been able to announce a state of national emergency and demand dictatorial powers from the Russian parliament in order, he claimed, to protect Mother Russia from terrorism. He thereby solidified his grip on power—permanently.
But his role in the massacres had been exposed, and critics around the world raged that Putilov had orchestrated the bombings.
Well, Putilov said to himself, maybe you can’t kill all your critics, but Litvinenko sure as hell won’t bother you anymore. Neither will Anna Politkovskaya or Marina Salye. You killed those three deader than Dostoevsky’s yaytsas [testicles].
He allowed himself a small hint of a smile. Let J. T. Tower top that one, Putilov thought wryly. You want to tell me about your “tough decisions”? That’s a hand I can call and raise.
He decided it was time to get out that desk-drawer aspirin bottle of krokodil. In preparation, he’d already crushed and razor-chopped ten tablets into a fine powder and dumped them into the Pyrex bong. Pouring two shot glasses of 190-proof Everclear and two splashes of ether and gasoline over them, he began heating the solution with his gold lighter until it reached a rolling boil. He then put the lighter away and stared at the liquid, watching it cool.
The Evil That Men Do Page 22
