Coup d’État

by Ben Coes

“My country is under attack,” snapped Ghandra, his voice rising. “It’s time for New Delhi to conduct its own war council. At this point India and America’s interests are not necessarily aligned.”

  “You’re wrong. They are aligned. The actions you take in the next few hours impact the U.S. I’m asking you to take the time to properly analyze the options before you.”

  “What is there to analyze?” asked Ghandra, exasperation in his voice. “The Pakistanis dropped a nuclear bomb.”

  “Is it the only one?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “Was it a rogue group within the Pakistani military?”

  “Again, I don’t know.”

  “Are there more bombs in the air right now?”

  “We’re looking and right now the answer is we don’t know.”

  “If you launch a retaliatory strike immediately, even though the facts and circumstances surrounding this first nuclear device are as yet unknown, and Pakistan counters, by dinnertime India and Pakistan are both gone,” said Allaire. “Give America time to help India figure out what is best for India. This could be an isolated attack by a crazed El-Khayab. It could’ve been done by a rogue within Pakistan Armed Forces. It will inflame the world. China will share your anger, as will Russia and the rest of the civilized world. Your job, your duty, is to do what is best for India.”

  The phone console was silent for a moment. President Allaire looked up as Jessica came sprinting into the room.

  “I am told that I need to move my location. I will need to call you back.”

  “Do I have your commitment, Rajiv, that you’ll give the U.S. adequate time to help you develop a strategy?”

  “I cannot do that. However, I will take your advice to heart.”

  “I’m getting on a plane within the hour,” said Allaire, glancing at Jessica, who shook her head. “I’ll be in New Delhi in approximately ten hours. I expect the Indian government to hold off a counterstrike until then.”

  The phone was silent.

  “Rajiv, there is no practical difference between launching nuclear weapons right now and waiting until the end of the day. None.”

  “If they drop more nuclear devices—”

  “If Pakistan drops more nuclear bombs all bets are off,” said Allaire. “I’m not asking you to commit suicide. I am asking you to give us—India and America together—time to figure this out. The best solution might in fact be a nuclear counterstrike. But let’s make that determination with the benefit of information more than ten minutes old.”

  The console was again silent. Then, Ghandra cleared his throat.

  “I’ll wait, President Allaire,” said Ghandra finally. “Unless something occurs in the interim which requires our immediate action.”

  “Thank you, Rajiv,” said President Allaire. “We’ll be airborne in less than an hour. In the meantime, we’ll go to work. See you in a few hours.”

  President Allaire pressed the button on the phone, ending the call.

  “I know you’ve already made up your mind,” said Jessica, “but the president of the United States cannot fly into a war zone that’s under nuclear attack.”

  “Good point,” said Allaire as he gathered his briefcase and some files. He smiled. “Better wake up the vice president and tell him to push back his tee time.”

  “I’m not kidding.”

  “Neither am I. I’m going to New Delhi. This is why I was elected. This is why America is looked to by the people of the world. If I die, I die doing what I’m supposed to be doing.”

  23

  LION’S DEN PUB

  COOKTOWN

  Lion’s Den Pub was crowded. As late afternoon gave way to evening, the pub was packed with locals and tourists. Opened in 1875 to serve workers from the now defunct Lion’s Den Tin Mine, the pub had a kind of grubby, disheveled, beer-soaked charm, a place where you could have a pleasant conversation with a stranger from another country, but where you also wouldn’t be surprised to see a girl stand on top of the bar, remove her shirt, and start dancing.

  At a picnic table in the corner sat six men. Despite their best efforts not to do so, they looked serious, their eyes darting about the room nervously. In the middle of the table was a pitcher of beer.

  A strange-looking man with spiked blond hair walked into the pub, eyed the table, then pushed his way through the crowd.

  “Could you have picked a place any more inconvenient?” asked Youssef, staring at Jamil. He sat down and grabbed a glass, filled it with beer, then chugged half of it quickly. “And by the way, where did these fucking Aussies learn to drive? I have never seen so many shitty fucking drivers in my goddamn life.”

  “Youssef, you said find a place near Cooktown,” said Jamil, “but out of the way.”

  “Whatever,” said Youssef. “It doesn’t matter. Okay, let’s get to work.”

  Youssef took a pack of Dunhill reds from his coat pocket. He lit one and blew smoke into the air.

  “Mind if I have one?” asked one of the men at the table.

  “Sure,” said Youssef. “Next time, buy your own goddamn pack. What do I look like, a fucking charity?”

  A buxom, red-haired waitress approached the table.

  “Another tank of Victoria’s?” she asked, looking at Youssef.

  “Sure,” said Youssef.

  He waited for the waitress to leave.

  “Did you see those butter bags?” he asked, polling the table as he pretended to squeeze a set of imaginary breasts. “Mamma mia. Okay, where’s the list?”

  Ahmed pulled a piece of paper out from his pants pocket.

  “It’s a list of bars around here,” said Ahmed, “like you asked.”

  “Good.”

  “We’ll cover each bar in Cooktown. Jamil and I each will have to cover two bars.”

  “What if he doesn’t go out?” someone asked.

  “Then we go out tomorrow night,” said Youssef. “And the next night. And the night after that. We need to be patient.”

  Youssef took a big sip from his glass, then pulled a photo from his back pocket. It showed Dewey; the same photograph Nebuchar had obtained, of Dewey receiving the Medal of Freedom.

  “This is him,” whispered Youssef. “Andreas. Dewey Andreas. Pass it around. He might not have short hair anymore. He might have a beard. He’s big.”

  The photo was passed around.

  “This is important: if you see him, Tweet. Then the rest of us converge. He was Delta Force. He’s trained and he’s dangerous. I don’t want any one of us to take him one-on-one if we don’t absolutely have to. We need to surprise him, then overwhelm him.”

  “What if he suspects one of us?”

  “If he suspects you, or if he starts to leave, then kill him. Most likely he’ll be drinking and we’ll have time. Don’t act obvious. Don’t be nervous. You’re a tourist, remember. Just Tweet, let everyone else know where you are, then we’ll kill him. No problems. Got it?”

  The six men at the table nodded.

  “As for the rest of you, when you get the message, move. We’re getting close. Nebuchar thought it would take us six months to find him. We’ve been in Australia for just over a month. One fucking month. Let’s finish the job. Then we can go home.”

  Youssef emptied the rest of his beer, poured another one, then pounded that one as well. He stood up.

  “Don’t fuck up,” he whispered, then grabbed the photo from Jamil’s hand. He placed it on the table, then took the last of his cigarette and pressed the burning ember against the photo, burning a hole in the middle of Dewey’s forehead.

  24

  SEMBLER STATION

  COOKTOWN

  Dewey opened the drawer on the small table next to his bed. He pulled out a black-and-white photo of Jessica, taken from a newspaper article. She had a serious look on her face, but he could also see a hint of her pretty Irish grin. Dewey had other photos, photos of Jessica and him together, but for some reason he liked to look at the newspaper clipping.

>   He walked down the hallway to the phone. He looked around then dialed the phone number he’d committed to memory. The phone clicked several times, then, after several moments of scratchy silence, the phone began ringing.

  “White House,” said a female voice. “How may I direct your call?”

  “Jessica Tanzer.”

  “Hold.”

  Another ring, then a male voice:

  “Office of the national security advisor, how may I assist you?”

  “Jessica Tanzer, please.”

  “May I ask who’s calling?”

  “Dewey Andreas, returning her call.”

  “Hold, please.”

  Dewey waited on hold for nearly a minute, then the phone beeped.

  “Dewey,” said the slightly faint voice of Jessica.

  “Hi, Jess.”

  “I can’t talk for very long. How are you? How’s Australia? Sembler Ranch?”

  “Station.”

  “Station?”

  “Sembler Station. They call them ‘stations’ down here.”

  “Why?”

  “I haven’t figured it out yet. But I certainly intend to.”

  Jessica laughed.

  “It’s nice to hear your voice,” she said.

  “Yours too. Where are you? The reception is terrible.”

  “I’m on a plane,” said Jessica. “I need to be quick. I’m sorry.”

  “What’s up?”

  “The CIA picked up information. Aswan Fortuna knows you’re in Australia. He has people in-country. They’re searching for you, paying people off, that sort of thing. You’re not safe.”

  Dewey felt a small surge of adrenaline.

  “How close are they?”

  “Australia Federal Police turned a two-man cell outside of Melbourne. They had a trunk full of cash and a manila folder on you. Photos. Two ex-Al-Muqawama.”

  “Al-Muqawama?”

  “Hezbollah. They both committed suicide before AFP could extract any information. There’s also evidence of a team in Sydney trying to buy off ONA agents.”

  “When was all this?”

  “The Melbourne cell was a week ago. The Sydney incident was two days ago.”

  “So it sounds like they’re not very close.”

  “Dewey, that’s two cells. There could be a hundred. Let me send a plane to get you.”

  “I’m as safe here as anywhere. He’s going to look for me wherever I am.”

  “He’s not going to leave it alone.”

  “So kill him. You know where he lives. You can take him out if you’re that worried about it.”

  “You know it’s more complicated than that. We kill Fortuna and all of the sudden there’s ten billion dollars in the war coffers of Hezbollah, Al-Qaeda, Hamas, and all the rest of them.”

  “Jess, you know I understand how things work. We just disagree on this one. If you want to beat our enemies we need to kill them. America can’t be afraid to kill. It’s that simple. We need to kill as many of them as possible as often as possible.”

  “Why didn’t you use one of the aliases Hector gave you?”

  “I’m not going to hide.”

  “You are hiding.”

  Dewey looked down the hallway behind him, thinking he’d heard someone come up the stairs.

  “Thank you for the warning. But you don’t need to worry about me.”

  “Maybe I want to worry about you.”

  Dewey paused, in silence.

  “Are you still there?” she asked.

  “Yeah.” Dewey heard footsteps on the stairs at the end of the hall. Talbot leaned his head around the corner.

  “You coming?” Talbot asked.

  Dewey ignored the question.

  “Well, that’s why I called,” said Jessica. “I have to run.”

  “I’ll let you know if they kill me,” said Dewey.

  “You think it’s all a joke. That’s fine. Laugh your way through life. Then you can look back in fifty years, alone, and think of all the great laughs you had. Goodbye.”

  “I don’t think it’s a—”

  “Take care, Dewey,” interrupted Jessica. The line went dead.

  * * *

  Back in his room, the noise from the other ranch hands, drinking, playing pool, partying on this Saturday night, came from the great room a floor below. Dewey pulled his boots on, put some money in his pocket, then got down on his knees in front of his clothes bureau and ran his hand along the underside. He felt a slight rise from the edge of a piece of duct tape. He ripped the duct tape off and pulled out a .45 caliber handgun. Colt M1911. He hadn’t looked at it or really even thought about it since he taped it there the day he moved in more than a year ago. He ripped the duct tape off the butt of the weapon.

  He reached back under. Next to where the handgun had been, he found another piece of tape. Dewey pulled out a long, eight-inch black steel Gerber combat blade. He glanced at the knife, black and silver with a patina of scratches. On one side, his initials were engraved. On the other side, one word: “Gauntlet.”

  Standing, he opened the top drawer of the bureau, reached in back, and removed a worn leather knife sheath that he fastened to his left ankle.

  He heard footsteps. Then a knock at the door.

  “Yo, beauty queen,” said Talbot. “Everyone’s left. You ready?”

  Dewey tucked the handgun into the small of his back. He strapped the knife to his left calf inside the sheath. He put on his leather coat. He stepped to the door and opened it.

  “Let’s hit it,” said Dewey.

  * * *

  Cooktown was a small beachside town that sat along a meandering strip of white powder beaches and rocky coast. Just offshore, the Great Barrier Reef crested less than ten miles away. The town attracted mainly British, European, and Asian tourists. A main strip ran for a mile through the middle of Cooktown. On one side was the water. The boardwalk above it was crowded with people out for a stroll. On the other side of the street, facing the beach, shops, restaurants, and bars were open.

  Talbot drove the F-150 the length of the strip. Finally, he pulled onto a small lane about halfway up the strip and parked. Dewey and Talbot walked several blocks to a crowded bar called Whitey’s. Talbot pushed his way to the bar and ordered a beer.

  “What do you want?” the bartender asked.

  “Two Jacks and a beer.”

  A pair of seats opened up and they sat down. Dewey looked about the room, seeing mostly couples.

  Talbot was a large Aussie with short blond hair, a deep tan, and a constant smile on his face. At twenty-four, he’d worked Sembler Station for nearly five years, signing on after graduating from high school in Cairns. Talbot and Dewey chatted about the ranch, while Talbot kept his eyes trawling for females. Soon, he started a conversation with a stunning Australian woman. She moved between Talbot and Dewey, speaking with Talbot. After a few minutes, she turned from Talbot and attempted to engage Dewey in conversation.

  “Hi,” she said. “Fun place, isn’t it?”

  Dewey pretended not to hear her.

  When she turned back to Talbot, Dewey glanced in her direction. Her long brown hair framed a distinct face, golden tan, freckles, a sharp nose, stunning blue eyes; aristocratic beauty. The more Dewey ignored her, the more she focused her attention on him, until, finally, Talbot found himself being completely ignored. He looked around and found a Frenchwoman, in her forties, with long blond hair and a slightly wrinkled face. Soon, the woman was standing between Talbot’s legs, next to the bar.

  “Looks like your friend found his soul mate,” said the young Australian woman.

  Dewey looked up from the wood of the bar, glancing to his right at Talbot. He smiled but said nothing.

  “Is there a reason you won’t talk with me? I won’t bite. Promise.”

  “It’s not you.”

  He stared down the bar, keeping his eyes low, watching the line of people.

  “Then why won’t you look at me?”

  “I did,�
�� said Dewey, looking into her eyes. “You’re too young for me.”

  “I’m not looking for a relationship. I’m looking for an intelligent conversation.”

  “Well, you’ve definitely come to the wrong place.”

  “Where in the States are you from?”

  Dewey sipped his Jack Daniel’s, then nodded to the bartender and ordered another along with a beer for Talbot, who was face-to-face with the Frenchwoman, giggling and kissing.

  “Oh, really,” the young beauty said, over Dewey’s shoulder. “That part. Hmmm. I really like that part of the States. So beautiful.”

  Dewey flipped the bartender some cash. “Whatever she’s having,” he said to the bartender, nodding to the girl without looking at her.

  “No, thank you,” she said as the bartender looked at her for her order. “I don’t let guys buy me drinks who aren’t willing to speak with me.”

  “Whatever.” He took the cash, left a few dollars’ tip, then put the rest in his pocket.

  After several minutes, the young woman leaned in, against the bar, and pushed her face in front of Dewey’s.

  “You have very blue eyes,” she said, smiling. “My name is Charlotte.”

  Charlotte’s face was now just a few inches from Dewey’s. Her eyes were as blue as sapphire, her lips red and voluptuous, her beauty simply dramatic at such a close distance. She shook her head back and forth, staring into his eyes, a quizzical look on her face.

  “I’ve been on the cover of Australian Vogue twice. I received double firsts at Oxford. And yet I can’t get a word out of you. You really do intrigue me.”

  “Trust me, there isn’t anything here to be intrigued about.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that. Isn’t there anything nice you can say?”

  “I like your name.”

  “It was my great-grandmother’s name. Thank you.”

  “Do you want that drink now?”

  “Sure. Grey Goose and water, lime.”

  She remained in front of him. She seemed slightly inebriated.

  “So are you going to tell me where you’re from?”

  “Maine. Do you know where that is?”

  “Yes. I’ve been there. L.L. Bean’s. Mosquitoes.”