Coup d’État

by Ben Coes

  Talbot groaned as pain from his legs enveloped him.

  “And here’s an address,” said the terrorist, holding up a small slip of paper. “Cairns. Archie Street. What is it?”

  Talbot started to cry.

  The blond trained the gun at Talbot’s head.

  “Cairns is a few hours from here,” said the terrorist, looking back at Talbot. “If you die before you tell us the name of the ranch we will simply go to Cairns. Believe me, I will kill anyone and everyone at this address. This cute little girl; maybe I’ll rape her before I kill her.”

  Talbot felt a surge of fear, and nausea, at the man’s words.

  He glanced into the eyes of the man who’d just shot him. Youssef. No emotion. Cold, dark pools of hatred stared back at him. The terrorist said something in a language he didn’t understand, then moved the nozzle of the weapon slightly left. Fired another shot, this one into the left kneecap, and this time the pain was incredible, it struck like an electric shock down Talbot’s leg in the same instant a wash of blood and bone arced from the knee into his mouth and eyes.

  “Someone’s behind us,” said the driver. “He’s getting closer.”

  * * *

  Dewey pulled the Porsche out of the parking spot on the side street, accelerated, burst forward in a fifty-foot quick sprint, then, at the intersection, yanked back on the emergency brake; the car rotated into a 180-degree turn. He pressed the accelerator to the ground and the sound of the screeching tires ripped the air. Within a few seconds he had the Panamera tearing down the road—toward the men who had just abducted Talbot—at more than a hundred miles an hour.

  In two blocks, he cut a sharp left, then accelerated down a street headed away from town. Small bungalows, homes with tidy grass lawns, lined the narrow streets, now dark. Dewey throttled the sedan as fast as it would go, barely under control.

  There was but one way to get to Sembler, but the terrorists were headed in the opposite direction. Talbot hadn’t given up the name yet.

  Once the Arab at the bar had seen Dewey, he set off a swarm. First in the street, and now. They were on him. Events were on him. He struggled to focus on the chase at hand. He wished he’d had one less drink.

  Jessica’s phone call saved his life. Yet even with the tip, Dewey had still underestimated the scope, the seriousness, the size, hell, even the very existence of the cell. A seven-man incursion was no small matter. The planning involved in getting the team into Australia, post-9/11, was impressive. They were running an expensive, elaborate mission. This cell was different, more sophisticated, like a special forces team, prepared to move quickly and attack en masse.

  He should not have come with Talbot tonight.

  He pushed the accelerator down, looked at the speedometer. Nearly one hundred and twenty miles per hour. The street merged with two others and soon he was on Route 81, heading out of Cooktown proper. He had to reach the terrorists’ car before they killed Talbot.

  Tough son of a bitch, Dewey thought. Talbot was his closest friend at Sembler, like a younger brother. Why did you put him at risk? It’s not his battle. He cursed himself: You arrogant asshole. Underestimating the enemy. He slammed his fist down onto his thigh, trying to control his anger at himself.

  He felt the blood on his right hand—from the terrorist he’d stabbed at the bar—drying, getting sticky. He wiped it across his jeans.

  He looked ahead and saw, for the first time, a glimpse of light from the escaping vehicle.

  * * *

  The BMW surged forward as the driver pressed the accelerator to the floor.

  “I’ll tell you the truth,” said the blond killer, looking into Talbot’s eyes. “You’re going to die. Whether you tell us or not. But if you tell us, we’ll have no reason to go to Cairns and kill your family. We would only go there to find out the information which you already possess. The name of the ranch.”

  “Say it,” said the driver, without looking back. “Spare your family.”

  Youssef trained the weapon at Talbot’s head, between his eyes. He held up the small photo of his young sister.

  “It’s very simple,” Youssef said calmly. “You have the choice. Either Andreas dies or your sister dies.”

  Talbot stared back into the killer’s eyes. He thought of Lolly. She would be nine this June. He loved Lolly so much, his little sister; she made everyone who knew her happy.

  Talbot then understood he was living his last moments on earth. He would miss Lolly’s birthday party. That is what Talbot thought about as he stared down the black hole at the end of the pistol’s silencer, felt the word arise from his throat, the last word he would ever say or hear.

  “Sembler,” he said.

  * * *

  Youssef stared at Talbot and slowly his mouth formed a smile. He pulled the trigger, the bullet entered Talbot’s skull between his eyes and ripped a simple, dark hole. The back of Talbot’s head blew off, raining blood, skull, and brains in a splash across the rear window.

  “Turn right on the mine road,” said Youssef, thinking of Ahmed’s map showing the locations of the different ranches, which he’d memorized. “We need to head north.”

  “Okay,” said the driver. He had both hands on the steering wheel, the gas pedal fully depressed. The speedometer read one hundred miles per hour. “By the way, whoever’s behind us is getting closer.”

  * * *

  Dewey watched as the sedan’s brake lights went on. He had moved to within a few hundred feet of the car, the Panamera’s power—and his reckless driving—enabling him to make up the distance between the two vehicles in a matter of minutes.

  The BMW broke right, down a different road, the mine road. Dewey knew the road. It went north, back toward Sembler.

  Dewey turned hard. The Panamera’s tires screeched as it slid into the end of the road, following.

  He slammed the accelerator down and moved into the dust wash trailing the terrorists, getting closer. The terrorists’ car sped furiously down the dark road ahead of him. It was a fast car and the driver knew what he was doing.

  Dewey floored the accelerator, tearing down the dirt road. The lights in front of him started to flicker through the dust trail as he came closer. He floored it, then reached to his left for his Colt. The butt was sticky with drying blood. The powerful Porsche gained on the BMW; it was much faster, and Dewey no longer cared if his reckless speed caused him to flip over. The lights of the BMW grew brighter through the dust. Then the Panamera slammed, hard, into the back of the M5. Dewey kept the gas pedal down, holding the Porsche against the terrorists’ sedan. Both vehicles were moving now, bumpers locked, at more than ninety miles per hour. The air was filled with choking dust and the sound of scraping metal.

  Dewey heard automatic-weapon fire from the car in front of him. Shots sounded above the engine din. The staccato beat of the weapon was soon met by the tinking of steel as the Panamera was hit by bullets. The windshield shattered as lead hit the glass. Dewey ducked to avoid the line of slugs, swerving to the right. The BMW burst ahead, but Dewey accelerated, cutting the distance between him and the first car.

  * * *

  “It’s him!” screamed Youssef as the lights from behind came closer. “I see his face!”

  Youssef grabbed an UZI and turned to face the oncoming car, holding the submachine gun out the window. He pulled the trigger back and fired just as the car slammed into the rear of the BMW, kicking him backward against the dashboard.

  “Fuck!” he screamed, righting himself, then aiming at the back window and firing. The glass shattered and he kept firing at Andreas.

  * * *

  Dewey ducked low, toward the center of the Panamera. With his right hand, he took his handgun from the passenger seat. He leaned against the center console. He held the weapon up, his foot drilled against the gas pedal. Dewey aimed his weapon at the car in front of him, toward the sound of the bullets. He had to move his head up for a brief second and he spied the terrorist, leaning into the middle of the sedan, blon
d hair, a sadistic smile on his face. He saw the silhouette of the short submachine gun, a black smudge across the hazy, dirt-filled space between the two vehicles.

  Dewey fired blindly at the speeding BMW.

  * * *

  Youssef held the trigger and fired at Andreas’s car, but Andreas had ducked. The terrorist kept firing, waiting for him to stick his head back up.

  The Porsche slammed again into the rear of the BMW, but Youssef was ready this time, and braced himself.

  “Faster!” yelled Youssef.

  He heard gunfire from the Porsche. He saw the pistol, the hand firing blindly in his direction. Then, like being struck with a baseball bat, Youssef was hit. A bullet struck him in the right arm, kicking the UZI from his hand. His entire body lurched backward into the dashboard, then settled awkwardly, headfirst, into the passenger seat.

  * * *

  The firing stopped. Dewey glimpsed up again. The blond gunman was gone, only the driver remained.

  Dewey sat up. He pushed the gas pedal against the ground. In the distance, past the silver sedan, he glimpsed the road ahead, and could see, to the right of the road, a large tree at a bend in the road. He felt the silver sedan’s brakes engaging, trying to slow down in order to turn and avoid hitting the tree. Dewey pressed the pedal, hugging the terrorists’ back bumper. He kept the heavily damaged front end of the Porsche locked against the rear bumper in front of him.

  Dewey glanced through the front of the sedan. The big tree at the corner came closer and closer. As they approached the sharp corner, he slowed for a moment, then two, then a third second, before slamming his foot on the pedal and accelerating. He slammed into the back of the BMW, against the sedan’s brakes. The power of the Panamera was too much for the BMW. He did not let up on the pedal. Dewey focused on the tree line ahead of the terrorists’ car. He concentrated on not letting the bumper of his car become detached from the BMW. The trees grew larger. They were about to hit. Still, Dewey kept the accelerator pressed to the ground.

  “Later,” Dewey whispered.

  Dewey flexed the gas pedal one last time then ripped the emergency brake back at the same time he moved the wheel hard right. The Porsche cut right, away from the BMW, just as the M5 crashed head-on into the thick oak tree straight off the road. The shattering of metal combined with screaming. Then there was silence.

  Dewey straightened the Panamera then stopped. He turned the car around and drove back to the destroyed silver BMW.

  Dewey climbed out and stepped to the side of the vehicle. Sweat poured down his face and chest. He knelt down and looked in the window on the driver’s side. The Arab was crushed between his seat and the steering column. His brown eyes stared out blankly ahead. Blood trickled from his nose and ears. In the passenger seat, all Dewey could see was one of the other killer’s legs. Sprawled across the backseat was Talbot’s corpse.

  Dewey walked back to the Porsche. He climbed in and drove. He needed to find the police.

  He needed to get out of Australia.

  31

  SOUTHERN AIR COMMAND, INDIAN AIR FORCE

  TRIVANDRUM, KERALA

  INDIA

  The Gulfstream G650 landed at the Indian Air Force’s Southern Air Command, on the southwest coast of India, four hours after leaving New Delhi. After coming to a stop at the end of a long runway, with the dark blue water of the Arabian Sea visible from every window, Jessica Tanzer and Hector Calibrisi stepped off the plane.

  They climbed into a waiting Land Cruiser with the IAF logo on its side. The SUV drove quickly along a service lane between runways, coming to a stop next to a long, black windowless plane with a large saucerlike disk sitting on top: an E-3 AWACS. AWACS, Airborne Warning and Control System, was America’s surveillance, command-and-control, and communications war room for tactical and defensive missions anywhere in the world, almost all operated by the U.S. Air Force. This one, however, belonged to the CIA.

  At the base of a set of portable air stairs stood two plainclothed men holding carbines. Between them was a smiling bald man in his late forties, dressed in a coat and tie, as anonymous and generic-looking as a high school teacher. This was Bill Polk, deputy director of the CIA’s National Clandestine Service and director of the Special Activities Division (SAD). He ran the two branches of SAD: Special Operations Group (SOG), CIA’s paramilitary units across the globe; and Political Action Group (PAG), in charge of deep-cover political, cyber, and economic activities. Polk was in charge of planning the coup.

  “Hi, Hector, Jessica,” said Polk above the din of the idling jet as Jessica and Calibrisi walked quickly from the SUV to the stairs. “Welcome to Kerala. Do you two have time to do a little sightseeing?”

  “Still the funniest hit man I know,” said Jessica. “Any word from Australia?”

  “Nothing,” said Polk, following them up the stairs. “But they’re on it. I have a man on his way up from Melbourne and Aussie Federal Police is all over it.”

  “We have ten minutes before we need to be back on Air Force One, so let’s make this quick,” said Calibrisi. “What’s the plan for meet-up with Andreas?”

  “Well, if we can find him, we’re going to put him on an Aardvark out of a RAAF base below Cairns,” said Polk. “I have one waiting on the tarmac for him. We’ll head south and meet him somewhere en route.”

  One of the two agents who followed Polk up from the tarmac shut and sealed the door, then knocked twice on the wall just outside the cockpit.

  Polk, Calibrisi, and Jessica moved past a bank of six workstations, filled with intelligence officers, to a conference table. Calibrisi and Jessica sat down across from Polk.

  “Where are we on the plan?” asked Calibrisi.

  “I’m trying to design something quickly,” said Polk. “If you gave me a month, or even a week, I would feel a hell of a lot more confident.”

  “Let’s hear what you got,” said Calibrisi.

  “We’re focused on three elements of the coup,” said Polk. “One, the team. Who do we send in. How many. We’re building an all-star list. The Iraq-Afghan theater actually means we have more choices; I assume I can pull someone off an active mission?”

  “Yes,” said Calibrisi.

  “I’m not sure how you want to select the final list, but I think we give Andreas options, then let him choose.”

  “Agreed,” said Calibrisi.

  “We’re constructing a list of Delta, SEAL, and Special Operations Group,” said Polk. “I’m picturing a three- or four-man team. I’ll bring them over the Qu’ush, down the Khyber Pass, through Peshawar down into Rawalpindi.”

  “How long is that going to take?”

  “From the time we drop them near the Afghan border, six hours,” said Polk. “We have a couple of private contractors we work with. They’ll be hidden in a supply truck. We also have assets in Europe and UK.”

  “What’s the second option on the team?” asked Jessica.

  “You mean if Fortuna’s goons have already gotten to him?” asked Polk.

  “I meant if he won’t do it,” said Jessica.

  “If he won’t do it, we’ll send in four PMOOs,” said Polk. “That’s the best I can do.”

  “‘PMOO’?” asked Jessica.

  “Paramilitary Operations Officers,” said Polk, pausing. “Otherwise known as killers.”

  Jessica nodded. “Thanks for the clarification.”

  “Don’t mention it,” said Polk. “Same infiltration design; my guy from London, three agents over the Qu’ush. I’ll deploy out of Qatar into Bagram, chopper to the border.”

  “Who do we replace El-Khayab with?” asked Jessica.

  “That’s our second focus area,” said Polk. “Obviously, it can’t be a jihadist, but that shouldn’t be hard. The key here is: who will the line military hierarchy follow? I don’t know the answer to that question yet, but I will. Four of those guys you passed,” said Polk, nodding at the midcabin workstations, “are Political Action Group. They’re sifting through the upper ranks
of Pakistan’s military leadership. We’ll have some options.”

  “Once you start the ball rolling on one of these coups, all of the generals and commanders who didn’t get selected start conspiring,” said Calibrisi. “They all think they’d make a great el presidente.”

  “We need to get very smart on back-channel relationships,” agreed Polk. “We could unwittingly tip off El-Khayab without even knowing it. Khan, their Minister of Defense, has deep ties down through PDF. We have to be real careful here. We need someone willing to be a fucking dictator. Of course, being a dictator doesn’t usually inspire loyalty from your coworkers.”

  “What’s third?” said Jessica, looking at her watch. “Our el presidente is about to leave without us.”

  “Third is ground plan,” said Polk. “We need to figure out who we’re replacing El-Khayab with before we can design the OP. But we can get a head start on some parts of it. We know we’ll need weapons, transportation, money. We have an agent working on that end of it inside Rawalpindi, building the cache, getting cars, food, money, everything. By the way, can I get one of you something to drink? Coffee, Coke, water, a Mojito?”

  “No, thanks,” said Calibrisi, laughing. “We have to get back.”

  One of Polk’s agents leaned out from one of the workstations and snapped his fingers.

  “What is it?” asked Polk.

  “NSA is picking up some chatter from Cooktown,” said the agent. “Two Arabs shot in the middle of the town.”

  “Cooktown is where Dewey’s ranch is,” said Jessica, concerned. “Who is NSA listening to? If they found him—”

  “Calm down, Jess,” said Calibrisi. “All we know is two Arabs are dead.”

  “In Cooktown!”

  “Did you have the chance to warn him about Fortuna?” asked Calibrisi.

  “Yes,” she said. “But he shrugged it off.”

  “Get on the phone with whoever’s in charge down there,” said Polk. “Let them know what they’re dealing with.”