by Kyle Mills
If he were more of an optimist, he'd just lie low until the nuke story broke and then reappear just in time for the parade in his honor. A vague smile spread across his face as he pictured himself sitting on a flower-covered float, perfecting that insincere wave that beauty contestants did so well. Brandon the Savior. Brandon the Hero.
It wasn't going to happen that way, though. If there was one thing the government didn't like, it was to be embarrassed. They'd sweep the whole thing under the rug, placating Scanlon and his crew with this promise or that and then sending a hit squad after the little thief who had made it all possible.
It was getting hard to keep track of his ever-expanding fan club: Scanlon's guys, that creepy asshole who'd snatched him from Catherine's place, the cops, the FBI. And who knew? If things went right, maybe the Ukrainians and a bunch of Arab terrorists would join up, too.
On the bright side, though, he'd just stolen a quarter of a billion dollars. No one could take that away from him. Figuratively speaking, anyway.
He stuck the shovel in the ground and slammed a foot into it, ignoring the woman staring at him through a bay window about thirty feet away. She'd been there on and off all morning, obviously worried that the men crawling all over her yard were going to steal her blind the moment she turned her back. Not that it was a bad idea, but it would be a little obvious if he tried to wander off with a big screen TV shoved down his pants.
A few more semienergetic kicks to the shovel got him nowhere. Roots. Or rocks. He sagged on the handle again. Nothing was ever simple.
"When I told them you'd get a job, they all said I was crazy."
He pretended he didn't hear and went back to digging.
"Brandon?"
"Very clever. My hat's off to you. Now go back and tell them you didn't find me."
"It's a little late for that," Catherine said.
He finally turned to face her. She was standing there in a pink skirt and white blouse, arms crossed in front of her chest and eyes downcast. At that moment, there wasn't anywhere in the world she wouldn't have seemed out of place.
"Maybe it's not you or Richard, but somebody out there wants me dead. You'd be stupid to risk me getting caught and telling my story."
She shrugged. "We have lousy criminal minds. Isn't that what you keep telling us?"
Brandon waved a hand around at the other men on the crew. "Which is why you decided to come here and kill me in front of a bunch of witnesses?"
"Stop it, Brandon. You know I wouldn't ever hurt you."
"Then what are you doing, Catherine? Wait. Let me guess. You're here to give me my cut. That's mighty big of you."
She didn't answer, instead just holding out a hand. He stared at it for a few seconds before dropping his gloves and taking it. They walked down the driveway and out the gates in silence, ignoring the stares of his new colleagues.
He climbed into the back of the limo first, seeing Scanlon there and then glancing up front and noticing that Carl was behind the wheel. How convenient. Someone who had made his hatred clear from the beginning.
"Where's Daniel?" Brandon said, settling into the deep leather seat as Catherine slammed the door behind them.
The silence that ensued started to make Brandon sweat. Were they going to kill him right there, parked in the middle of affluent American suburbia? They were. Of course, they were. That's why Carl was there. Daniel hadn't wanted to be the one who pulled the trigger.
"I don't know exactly how to say this," Scanlon said as the limo accelerated away from the curb.
Brandon's mouth suddenly went completely dry.
"Daniel . . . Daniel didn't make it."
Brandon blinked a few times, the complex details of the heist flooding back into his mind and temporarily drowning his fears.
"You've got to be kidding! He got caught? I thought he was a Green Beret or something! Shit! Listen to me. We've got to --"
Catherine put a hand on his arm and he fell silent.
"What Richard means is that Daniel . . . died."
"What? What do you mean, died?"
"Apparently, he had internal injuries from the helicopter crash," Scanlon said with a calm that came off as completely artificial. "We couldn't get him on his cell or his radio and I had to send Carl out there in broad daylight to find him. He was lying under a boulder unconscious. He died on the way to the hospital."
"But ... He can't have . . . People don't die doing stuff like this. They don't . . ."
Catherine slid an arm around his shoulders and he leaned forward, propping himself on his knees. It was getting hard to breathe. It had been his plan -- his fault that Daniel was in that helicopter.
"He had to know he was hurt," Brandon managed to get out. "Why didn't he say something? I'd have come back for him. I wouldn't have left him out there to . . ." He couldn't bring himself to say the word.
"He knew that, Brandon. It's why he kept it to himself. He knew he couldn't risk jeapordizing the operation --"
"The operation? The operation? Are you---
"Listen to me," Scanlon said. "This isn't your fault. You planned and executed this thing perfectly. No one else could have done what you did. But you can't control everything. You just have to put it behind you and move on."
It occurred to Brandon that he'd never really known anyone who died. Sure, deep down he knew his mother had, but it was more like she'd just gone away. Suddenly, he felt like he was going to throw up.
Scanlon leaned forward and opened a small refrigerator, pouring three whiskeys. He held one out to Brandon. "Take it."
He did, and watched Scanlon hold up his own glass. "To Daniel. To his courage. And to you, Brandon. You did it. You actually did it."
Scanlon and Catherine drank, but Brandon just slumped back into the seat. "Yeah. I did it."
Everyone in the car fell silent, and Brandon watched the liquid in his glass slosh back and forth as Carl maneuvered the limo through the congested city streets.
"Why are you here?" he said finally. "Not just to tell me about Daniel."
"No," Scanlon replied.
Brandon eyed the door handle but managed to resist testing it. "What do you want?"
Scanlon ignored the question. "Taking off like that was stupid, Brandon. It could have ended with you getting caught. Or worse."
"Seemed like a good idea at the time."
"We can't have you running around trying to scrape together enough money to jump the border. You know that."
"So you're going to kill me."
"Brandon, you've got to get over this idea that we're going to kill you," Catherine said. "If you want to walk away from us -- and we both understand if you do -- then we need to go back to the original plan. A new identity, a new face, a property in South Africa, and enough money to keep you out of trouble for the rest of your life."
"Is that a joke?"
"It was our agreement wasn't it?" Scanlon said.
Brandon didn't respond immediately, trying instead to figure their angle. He came up blank. "I don't get it."
"It couldn't be more simple. We can't afford for you to be found, and if we leave you here, you will be. The FBI knows it was you, Brandon -- I don't have to tell you that. We have to keep you out of their reach."
"Bullshit," he said and turned to Catherine. "Come on. Give it to me straight. What's the catch?"
She shrugged. "There is no catch. We have a plastic surgeon in Argentina that's going to do the work and you'll stay there until you've recuperated enough to get pictures for new IDs. Then we'll show you how to access the ten million we've deposited for you and fly you to your house in South Africa. That's it. You'll never see us again."
"Nothing's ever that simple."
Scanlon took a sip from his glass and swished the fluid around in his mouth for a moment. "Well, there is one thing I wanted to talk to you about."
Brandon nodded knowingly. "Here we go." "We have a little problem . .
"I don't know if I'd call it little," Catherine i
nterjected.
"The thing is, we have another job that we need help with. It's ironic, but it seems that you're the only person we have who's qualified."
"You've got to be kidding me. Seriously --You're joking, right?"
"No. It's not a joke," Scanlon said.
"I just left one of your guys to die out in the desert. I find it hard to believe I'm the best you can do."
He was surprised when Carl spoke. "Daniel wasn't your fault, Brandon. You did what you had to do and he did what he had to do. Sometimes that's all there is."
The distaste that had been so evident before was completely gone now.
Scanlon nodded in agreement. "Look, all I'm asking is that you hear me out. If you don't want the job, you'll be on a plane to Argentina this afternoon."
"I don't need to hear you out. I don't want the job."
Scanlon ignored him and pulled the whiskey bottle from the refrigerator again. "Can I freshen those up?" Both Brandon and Catherine shook their heads. He poured himself another healthy shot.
"So what you're telling me is that you didn't enjoy one minute of stealing that money? Or maybe that you don't think it was a worthy cause?"
"It was okay"
"And what about South Africa? I've seen your place there. It's a beautiful old Cape Dutch house surrounded by fifty acres of vines."
"Almost sixty," Catherine corrected.
"Well, there you have it. Almost sixty acres. And all the money you could ever spend. I imagine that's your idea of paradise, isn't it? Time to putter?" He thumbed in the general direction of where they'd picked him up. "Do a little gardening, sip wine by the pool. There is a pool isn't there?"
Catherine nodded. "One of those negative edge designs overlooking a little valley."
"A valley," Scanlon said. "I really envy you. It sounds so . . . peaceful."
Brandon stared out the tinted window, watching the traffic go by. Scanlon's delivery wasn't exactly subtle, but the point was depressingly valid. If all this was true, what would he do with the rest of his life? Fish leaves out of his pool? Stomp grapes? He tried to picture himself walking along a golf course in a pair of plaid pants and a matching cap.
It wouldn't hurt to just listen, right? If Danny had been willing to die for this thing, the least he could do is sit there and listen.
Chapter THIRTY-FOUR
"I have to say I wasn't sure that we'd ever get to this point," Scanlon said, leading Edwin Hamdi through the empty building toward his office. "But the plane's in the air."
"And Vale? How is he?"
"He's scared to death of Eastern European criminals."
"And does that concern you?"
Scanlon shook his head. "Any sane person in his position would be afraid. He just doesn't bother to hide it. This is a lot to pile on him, Edwin. We both know that."
"After the death of my man in the Middle East, there wasn't a choice."
Scanlon let out a humorless laugh, flipping on the light to his office and starting toward the small bar in the back corner. "I don't doubt that. I know how you feel about Brandon. Must be killing you to have it all come down to him."
Hamdi accepted a drink with a polite nod. He'd never been much of a drinker. While the powerful Islamic faith of his father had never taken hold of him, it was hard to completely discard so much cultural heritage. Today, though, was different. For perhaps the first time in his life, he would welcome oblivion.
"I have to admit that in many ways you were right about him, Richard. He does have unique qualities that have proven quite useful." Hamdi took an uncharacteristically long pull from the glass in his hand, but resisted the urge to immediately take another. "I don't think I've ever thanked you, Richard. I want to now. For all your hard work and for everything you've put at risk. This operation wouldn't have succeeded without you."
His tone had an unintended finality to it, but Scanlon didn't seem to notice. He was too caught up in the idea that he would soon be turning over a planeload of nuclear weapons to the U. S. Navy.
And while that wasn't going to happen, the end result of their actions would be effective beyond Scanlon's wildest imaginings. The warheads would be transported to Israel, placed in strategic positions by Yusef s men, and after a short time, detonated. Not only would the constantly escalating tensions caused by Israel's existence come to a long overdue end, but the United States would finally be forced to give the problem of loose nukes the attention it demanded.
The problem with America's desperate addiction to Middle Eastern crude and the irrational decisions that addiction caused would remain, of course. But in Hamdi's estimation, the situation was self-correcting. With China's thirst growing and world production peaking, the coming years would see price increases that would force the U. S. to restructure its energy strategy. The Middle East would become a political backwater with little more significance than sub-Saharan Africa.
"I'm glad you're starting to see Brandon's value," Scanlon said, as Hamdi finished his drink and went to the bar to make another one.
"I think it would be a bit hypocritical for me to deny it at this point."
Scanlon was in many ways a brilliant man, but also a fundamentally emotional one -- tied to ideas of right and wrong that the modern world had turned into dangerous conceits.
"When all this is over we'll see that he gets a pardon," Scanlon said. "Or maybe something a little quieter. Going forward, I hope we can work it out that he can continue to play some role in the organization. He's got a lot of talent."
"Yes, he does," Hamdi said, his voice barely audible. "We'll see if we can work something out."
He just wasn't good at this. Scanlon had to be sacrificed -- one man's life was meaningless when compared with an opportunity for peace in a world moving toward the brink. It was one of those rare times, though, that Hamdi wanted to turn away from the logic of that conclusion. He not only admired the man, but liked him. The idea that he had to die while the incompetent and corrupt men who had made all this necessary were allowed to live was a cruel joke.
But an inescapable one.
In a few hours, the honorable and patriotic Richard Scanlon would be silenced -- along with Catherine, Vale, and the rest of his men. His legacy would be a strange one. There was little hope that the FBI would overlook his involvement in the Las Vegas theft, but Hamdi had done -- and would do -- everything possible to make sure that Scanlon's name would never be tied to Israel and the warheads. He deserved that much at least.
Hamdi looked down at his glass, watching the ice flash in the lights overhead. Soon his real role in all this would start. He would take on the task of directing the world's actions toward a post-Israel Middle East, working to replace the horror and panic he was about to unleash with peace and sanity. Perhaps one day the dispassionate hindsight of historians would recognize that neutering the Jews had been the first step in creating a permanent peace in the world.
Chapter THIRTY-FIVE
Every time Brandon slumped against the curving wall behind him, he was immediately jerked fully awake by the powerful vibration of the plane's props. He finally crawled to the middle of the floor and wove himself into a well-anchored cargo net, trying to think happy thoughts. None came to mind.
He'd always had a mild distaste for flying, though it wasn't so intense that it couldn't be mitigated by a wide first-class seat, some decent wine, and the fawning attention of a cute flight attendant.
This particular flight didn't have an attendant, though. Or wine. It didn't even have seats. Just a gloomy fuselage filled with wooden crates and thin, frigid air.
He pitched to the left when the plane hit an air pocket, feeling his stomach bob helplessly on a sudden wave of adrenaline. From where he was lying, he could see Catherine in the cockpit, one eye on the black windscreen and the other on their creepy pilot.
Oddly, she seemed more relaxed than he'd ever seen her. It appeared that courting death a million miles from home was less frightening to her than courting arrest on th
e warm and familiar roads of the American West. Unfortunately, he was a bit more realistic when it came to risk assessment. At this point the best he could hope for -- beyond surviving, of course -- was to get through this thing without crying in front of her.
He'd never even gotten to see it. Two hundred million dollars in glorious, gleaming cash. The greatest -- and most likely last -- achievement of his life.
These were sad times for thieves -- an age in which virtually everything of value was contained in computers and fiber optics. You couldn't run your fingers through a wire transfer. You couldn't smell numbers on a computer screen. No matter how many zeros there were.
Standing unsteadily, Brandon left the relative safety of the cargo net and lurched toward the closest crate. He ran his hands along the rough, unmarked wood and then tried to pry his fingers beneath the well-secured lid. Just a quick peek. What could it hurt?
"Step away from the money/' he heard over his earphones.
Behind him, Catherine was leaning out of the cockpit, staring at him with mock severity. She finally broke into what might have been a mildly psychotic smile. She seemed almost happy to be there.
"We're getting ready to land, Brandon, and it's going to be rough. Hold on, okay?"
He did as he was told, threading himself through the cargo net again and thinking about South Africa. Golf probably wasn't so bad. People were always doing it.
The nose of the plane dipped suddenly, causing the already dim lights in the fuselage to sputter and finally go out. Brandon gripped the net tighter.
The story Scanlon had told him was less a briefing than a vague outline. The bottom line was that the last guy they'd sent to meet with the Ukrainians had suffered an "accident." Details, beyond the fact that it had been of the fatal kind, were hazy at best.
And so the organization found itself with a job opening for someone with very specific qualifications. The Ukrainians -- a cautious and clinically insane lot -- were not going to accept one of Scanlon's fair-haired boys as anything but what they were: American spies. As a career criminal well known in the circles the Ukrainians traveled, though, Brandon was another matter. Suddenly, everyone was happy again. Except him. And, of course, the guy who had the accident.
