by James Phelan
He pushed it around the tabletop, fumbled a purchase on the handle, but it kept slipping in his bloodied hand. He picked it up.
Then dropped it on the desk as Mendes started pressing his head against Fox’s throat, never slowing the infighter boxing.
Fox had it in his grasp again, felt the thin metal handle in his clenched fist, held it tight. He screamed, a desperate barbaric yawp as over his body’s protest he fought to lunge with the letter-opener with all his strength.
He pushed it into Mendes’s side. Felt it slide in between two ribs. Pushed until it was to the hilt of his clenched fist.
Mendes’s eyes went wide and he took a step back, then another. Let out a loud breath that might be his last.
Fox stared into Mendes’s scary, empty eyes.
Fox still held the handle and he was off the desk now. He stood, and almost fell forward as his legs took his weight. His right hand was still on the letter opener; he put his left onto the opposite side of Mendes’s body and pushed them together.
The blade had disappeared into Mendes, the full fifteen centimetres of metal.
Mendes collapsed onto the floor on his knees.
Fox slowly crouched down. The sound of gunfire echoed about the room. He looked Mendes in the eyes. Held his face up to his eye-line by a fistful of hair.
“Michael Rollins,” Fox said. “Why did you kill him?”
The confused stare of Mendes was searching Fox’s face.
“You’re dying, pal,” Fox said, uneasily balanced, hand still tight on Mendes’s hair. “Even it up. Why’d you have Rollins killed?”
“Your mis—mistake…”
“My mistake?” Fox asked.
No answer. Mendes was fading and Fox had to get out of this room before more bad guys came filing in. He shook Mendes’s head, watched his eyes roll around. “You’re dying. You’re dying, man. Why’d you want us killed? Why’d Michael Rollins die?”
There was a glint in the man’s eyes as he convulsed violently and died. The reason would be another secret that the career intelligence officer left the world with and would never reveal. He left with a final look on his face that read, I know something you don’t know …
73
THE SITUATION ROOM, THE WHITE HOUSE
“Four dead Secret Service agents, thirteen injuries, being bussed out now,” O’Keeffe said.
“The terrorists?” McCorkell asked. On a screen in the room he watched the replayed image from Fox News, the surreal view of a headless corpse remaining upright on his knees with the White House’s south portico as a backdrop.
“Two targets, both down,” O’Keeffe said. “Each confirmed as our two suspects.”
McCorkell shared a look with the President.
“Do we think there’s something else coming?” the President asked. “I mean, that’s all the suspects accounted for now?”
“All those we know of, Mr President,” McCorkell said. “We’ll know when we go through all the recovered data from the Key West site. With the death of Massoud, it might have forced their hand to fall back on what they know best. Suicide bombing. They’ve gone for our seat of government in a highly visible way. This seems outside the scope of their cell’s objective. This is a case of Mendes using these guys for his own objective to raise oil prices so as to have a higher bargaining position, and to divert our attention. Both actions worked. What he didn’t fully realise is what would happen in going into business with terrorists.”
“You lie down with lions…” the President said.
“Mr President, the True Target element is on site,” Vanzet cut in. “UAV air strike is five minutes out, our boys on the ground have called in the fire. We just need your say-so.”
74
LAGOS, NIGERIA
Lachlan Fox stood before Brutus Achebe.
He had his Glock pointed close at the Nigerian’s head. Blood ran over his hand, down the pistol grip, and dripped onto the off-white carpet. His aim swayed, but at this range an inch to the left or right hardly mattered.
Achebe knelt on the ground, his face up at Fox. He had his wife and kids behind him. He shook his head, searched Fox’s face, his eyes pleading, No, not in front of my kids.
Fox swayed, blinked into focus. Looked around the room. Bags were packed, they’d been ready to leave. There was a big case full of US cash on the bed—portable, ready to roll to the next safe house once it was zipped up. Serious amounts of US bills in there. Twenty, thirty kilos worth of Benjamin Franklin.
Fox coughed. Touched his lip—his fingers came away wet. He rubbed the bright red, foamy blood between his thumb and forefinger. Couldn’t help but wince. He wiped his hand on the front of his Kevlar vest. The whole hand came away covered with thick, sticky blood. He blinked away the image of Rollins dying in his arms. Focused. Held the Glock up level with Achebe’s forehead.
“Just tell me why,” Fox said. Matter-of-fact.
“Lach?”
Fox turned his head—saw Gammaldi enter the room. A US Army captain stood at the door.
The gunfire had died down from inside the house now. There was only the sporadic machine-gun fire from out front on the street.
Fox looked back down to Achebe. The Nigerian stared back at Fox, confused. Fox motioned that he expected an answer.
“I—I wanted power?” Achebe said, unsure what the answer was that Fox wanted to hear.
“Michael Rollins…” Fox said. His finger tightened in the Glock’s trigger-guard. “Why did you have Michael killed? Why’d you try to kill us?”
Fox waited for an answer. Took a step closer, the pistol point-blank to Achebe’s face.
“Hellfire strike in three minutes!” Nix yelled into the room. He stood braced in the doorway, his M4 scanning for targets. “Achebe stays. Friendlies evac now!”
Achebe shook his head at Fox. His eyes had that same gleam of wonder that Mendes had left with, mixed with some disbelief of everything that was happening to him.
“Last chance,” Fox said. In the background he saw the face of Achebe’s young son looking up at him. He blocked it out, pressed the Glock hard against Achebe’s forehead. “Right-thefuck-now, tell me: Why—did—you—have—him—killed?”
Achebe stood, to draw Fox’s aim clear from his family. A protective father. Finally, this man had realised the value of life. Too late.
Fox fired into the air above him.
Achebe turned, said goodbye to his kids. Looked back at Fox, some measure or resolve there in his face.
The Glock touched against Achebe’s forehead, seared it with the hot metal. Fox’s arm was shaking. He knew this was the end. He had just moments left to live and this fuck was going down first.
“You are mistaken, Lachlan Fox,” Achebe said.
There was a pushing on Fox’s leg. Achebe’s son beat his little three-year-old fist against Fox’s knee.
Fox still held the gun on Achebe.
“Lach, don’t do it…” Gammaldi said.
“Get out of here, Al,” Fox replied. His eyes never left Achebe, who looked like a man resigned to his fate. Fox swayed a little; Gammaldi steadied him. He was standing right next to Fox, calmly by his side, as if they had all the time in the world.
“Two minutes!” Nix said. “Let’s move it out, people!” He entered the room, with total disregard for whatever Fox and Achebe had going on, picked up a kid under each arm and carried them out, Achebe’s wife close behind him and her screaming kids.
“Friendlies coming out the front door!” Nix’s words into his helmet mic echoed up the stairs into the bedroom.
“Take him in…” Gammaldi said to Fox. His voice was calm in his friend’s ears. “Lach, let’s go. Bring this guy in.”
“Why? So he can hide behind a hundred lawyers?” Fox said. His Glock was real unsteady now, he almost didn’t have the strength to hold it up any more. His voice quietened as he said to Achebe: “What did you say about Rollins?”
�
�He said you were wrong,” a voice cut in.
Fox and Gammaldi turned their heads.
There was a guy in the open doorway that connected this bedroom to another. Dressed just in underpants and with bloodied bandages wrapped around his body. More an apparition than a real figure. Fox blinked to clear his vision.
It was Michael Rollins.
75
THE SITUATION ROOM, THE WHITE HOUSE
“Final code is in, both targets are in the building,” Vanzet said. “UAV is in approach run.”
“Take them,” the President said. “Take the shot.”
The image from the UAV’s real-time camera showed the neighbourhood streets of Lagos flashing by underneath it.
“What’s the situation with chalk one?” McCorkell asked. “True Target personnel—are all friendlies accounted for?”
Vanzet had one ear to an open phone line to The Pentagon.
“They’re leaving the site right now, waiting for final friendlies to evac,” Vanzet said. “They’ve got Achebe’s family out, wife and two kids.”
“There were kids in there?” the President asked, alarmed.
“They’re out now, Mr President. Leaving the target area.”
They all watched the black and white image on the main screen.
“God be with them.”
76
LAGOS, NIGERIA
Fox’s feet hardly touched the ground as he was led outside with an arm over the shoulders of Gammaldi and Achebe.
Nix was at his Humvee, which was loaded tight with Achebe’s family. There were still security contractors on the roof and down the street, engaged in sporadic fire. Nix made the slightest pause as Achebe stood in front of him. The Army captain looked back to the house, then into the vehicle at the Nigerian’s family—no way did he have what it took to put a bullet in Achebe’s head right there, in cold blood, in front of them. He pushed Achebe into the back seat, got in the front, and the two Humvees roared off.
Fox was helped into the back seat of a Range Rover, motionless as he sat next to Gammaldi. Gibbs was behind the wheel with Sefreid riding shotgun. Javens climbed awkwardly into the back and they tore off down the road as he closed his door.
With his head resting on the back seat, Fox looked out the rear window. His breaths were short and sharp, irregular, as he fought to focus his eyes. He saw the figure of Michael Rollins standing in the first-floor window. Fox’s world was spinning, and that moment of time seemed to span hours, weeks. It was as if he were watching this very scene from afar, that he was no longer a player in the action. He, like Rollins, was being pulled from this earth. The figure of Rollins grew smaller, until he was a blur. In seconds he would pass into the unity of all things.
There was a sharp whack-whack of missile strikes followed instantly by a massive thunderclap of rolling explosions. Fox felt the concussion in his chest and somehow sensed that this was all that now beat in there.
“Lachlan!” Gammaldi shouted at him. “Lach! You with me?”
Fox watched the plume of smoke reach into the sky, the safe house reduced to a pile of rubble and smoke that covered the street in their wake. He tilted his head to face his friend. He felt at peace; his face radiated what he saw in Gammaldi’s. Despite his wounds, he felt no pain. He could not feel beyond his face. He smiled. He could feel his mouth form into a half-smile that spoke of the knowledge that comes with death.
“I’m with you, buddy,” Fox said. His journey here was done. All of a sudden, as if he had given up on his quest, he collapsed into himself with the strain of the bullet holes in him.
The sun began its departure as well.
Epilogue
THE WHITE HOUSE, THE NEXT DAY
McCorkell sat at the porch reading a book on the Iraq War. It was an embedded journalist’s account and he was reading about some of the engagements that he had been involved in from afar. Already some of his legacy was apparent. It was interesting reading, although he wished there were less photographs. He looked forward to a day where he could look back with enough distance to be removed from immediate guilt. He wondered if he would have been a good soldier. He doubted it.
“Bill, walk with me,” the President said, exiting the garden door of his office and heading towards the Residence. The Secret Service agents kept their distance, although there were more of them than usual. McCorkell took stride next to the President, stopped for a moment as the Commander-in-Chief bummed a smoke from an agent, and they continued walking.
“The media are calling for blood over the attack here yesterday,” McCorkell said.
“So’s most of congress and the senate,” the President said. “Even some of the people I respect most are calling for revenge…”
They stopped and watched the gardeners attending the roses. Birds pecked at newly scattered lawn seed. Sunday traffic sounds were faint. Armed agents were silent.
“O’Keeffe told me that the FBI found the terrorist’s safe house here in Washington,” the President said.
“Yes, Mr President,” McCorkell said. “They recovered a courier van with a mortar set up in the back. They had planned to hit the White House, things could have been much worse. Seems Massoud took the location of his safe house with him.”
“The nurse, McFarland, he talked yet?” the President asked.
“Late last night. Never knew the real identity of his lover.”
“You believe him?”
“Love can be blind.”
“Romantic.”
They watched the gardeners prune and plant and snip and cut. The overflying air force jets were distant. McCorkell watched the President’s gaze follow the slipstreams in the clear air. Calculating more than miles.
“You did good in there yesterday,” McCorkell said.
“I was all right. I’ve got a good team.”
“You’re a man down now.” Not ten minutes ago, through the glass of the door of the Oval Office, McCorkell had seen Fullop pass the letter to the President.
“Plenty of good men around,” the President said. “Although I do think it’s time for a woman’s touch.”
The President took a final drag and tossed the butt onto the grass by his feet. Ground it out. Picked it up. His chocolate Labrador, Tenzin, came from nowhere. Licked his hand. Went over and sniffed McCorkell, tail wagging as he received a scratch behind the ear.
“Oil prices have gone down a bit,” McCorkell said.
“Not enough. Not nearly enough.”
They continued to the Residence. Tenzin bumped in between them as they walked.
“We’ve all seen it rise and we’ll watch it rise again,” the President said. “One thing to come out of all of this: we gotta get away from oil.”
NEW YORK CITY, TWO WEEKS LATER
The BBC news anchor introduced the lead story of the hour:
“The ex-president of Nigeria, Hassan Ruma, appeared today before the International Court of Justice at The Hague. Mr Ruma pleaded guilty to all charges of gross corruption and human rights violations during his fifteen-year reign.”
The image on the screen showed Hassan Ruma surrounded by medical staff as he entered the Peace Palace. The cameras of the world’s media flashed away.
“It is hoped that his admissions of guilt will set an example for other African leaders, a step already seen in the actions of fellow Nigerian, former Energy Minister Brutus Achebe. Achebe, who was recently involved in a failed coup against the sitting President, has today announced his intention to follow Mr Ruma’s lead…”
At the very least, it was the first crack in what had long been an unspoken pact among such leaders to protect one another.
The ticker along the bottom of the screen read: US military force in Nigeria secures peace in the Niger Delta. Local governments gain federal support in implementing sweeping reforms of the oil contracts in the region.
“And you didn’t want me to pick you up a seventy-inch screen,�
� Gammaldi said. He shook his head in mocking disbelief. “Game or movie?”
Fox pointed to the movie.
“You’re sure? I got you Star Wars: The Force Unleashed for the PS3 … all right.” Gammaldi clicked the news over to Apple TV, and started up a movie on the big Sony LCD.
Fox pressed the button to make the bed-head rise. It was a hospital-type trolley bed, brought into his apartment with him strapped to it two days earlier. A nurse came over and checked Fox’s temperature.
“I’m actually feeling a little sick myself,” Gammaldi said. “Would a sponge bath be out of the question?”
The nurse, used to his wise-cracks by now, gave him a stare reserved for the pathetic, and went and sat back down to read her magazine.
“She is smoking!” Gammaldi mouthed to Fox.
Lachlan shook his head.
“How’s it going with you and what’s-her-name?” Gammaldi asked.
“Jane? All right,” Fox said. His voice sounded tired. “She visited last night.”
“Straight back into it, you dog you.”
“Shut up, Al, we’re friends is all.”
“Yeah, right.”
“How about you and Emma Gibbs? She still around or have you scared her off with your skill at watching sports, eating pizza, snoring and farting all at the same time?”
Gammaldi didn’t grace that with an answer. Just smiled and watched the movie’s opening credits.
“Why would they call this Quantum of Solace?”
“Question is, why make another movie with the premise of bad guys planning to take over a country? Bit of a yawn if you ask me.”
“Stranger than fiction, hey?”
They laughed.
“So, what’s next?”
“Next?” Fox asked. He could see what his friend was getting at. “What’s next…? I think a trip to India is next.”
