Coup d’État

by Ben Coes

  “What about Bolin?” asked Iverheart.

  “Bolin’s still in the Drass aerie,” said Margaret. “Here’s your cache. I put food, drink, IFAK, in the car.”

  Arrayed across the dirt floor were three HK MP7A1 compact submachine guns with suppressors, three tactical vests packed with extra magazines holding 4.6x30MM Fiocchi CPS “Black Tip” slugs, and .45-caliber slugs. Three handguns were laid out, all Colt M1911s, suppressors attached to the ends. Three pairs of ATN FIITS14 night vision goggles. A supply of hand grenades. To the side, a long, thin duffel bag, unzipped, revealing an already converted Desert Tactical Arms “Stealth Recon Scout” .338 Lapua Magnum sniper rifle with AAC Titan-QD suppressor and L-3-Renegade-320 thermal sight, already mounted.

  In the fluorescent light of the windowless garage, Dewey looked at Iverheart and Millar.

  “We’re watching Karreff from across the river,” said Margaret. “He’s with his mistress. We estimate eight to ten guards outside the apartment. There are two apartments on his floor but the other one is unoccupied.”

  “Why were you late?” Dewey asked, looking at Millar.

  “They marked me,” said Millar, wiping his brow. “At the airport. The passport held but a customs agent marked me and didn’t let up. He and a backup followed me.”

  “Where are they?” asked Dewey. “Did you lose them?”

  “I killed them,” said Millar. “They’re in a bathroom stall at the airport. They’ll be found soon.”

  “We’ll monitor ISI and capital territory police for any activity coming out of the airport,” said Margaret.

  Dewey, Millar, and Iverheart each leaned down and picked up a vest and weapons. The extra grenades and ammo Iverheart stuffed into a duffel bag.

  Margaret reached down and picked up a small plastic box, then opened it. Inside were three small black objects that looked like gumdrops. She held the case out to Dewey, then Iverheart and Millar.

  “They’re waiting for you,” said Margaret.

  Dewey placed one of the COMM buds in his right ear.

  “Hey, guys,” he said quietly.

  “Dewey,” said Bradstreet. “Are you all there?”

  “Yes,” said Dewey.

  “How was the trip in?”

  “Fine,” said Dewey. “You’re going to need a new delivery man.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We were ambushed south of Peshawar. Your man was shot and killed. We had to kill a few locals.”

  “Look on the bright side, Mainiq,” Polk chimed in, “you saved Uncle Sam seventy-five grand.”

  “What about witnesses?” asked Bradstreet.

  “Not an issue,” said Dewey. “Now give me an update. We need to move.”

  “It’s just past midnight. So you have time, but it’s getting tight. As we discussed, you need to take out Karreff before you go and find Bolin. Margaret will give you the layout of the apartment building.”

  “Okay.”

  “After taking out Karreff, you’ll drive north. That’s where the chopper is. Millar knows Rawalpindi and is briefed on the location of the chopper.”

  “What about India?” asked Dewey. “Are they committed to the time frame?”

  “They’re not backing off,” said Polk over the COMM bud. “Noontime tomorrow. You have less than twelve hours now.”

  Dewey looked at Margaret. “What do we know about Karreff’s security team?”

  “They’re all Special Services Group,” said Margaret. “Karreff handpicked them. These are not security guards or even regular army. They’ve been killing Taliban in the Hindu Qu’ush for the past five years. That said, they won’t be expecting visitors. Before the war with India, we watched them on four separate occasions during Karreff’s overnights. They play cards, smoke cigarettes, and talk. Still, you just need to be aware: SSG is not a pushover group.”

  Margaret pulled a piece of paper from her pocket and unfolded it. It was a floor plan of the apartment building.

  “The apartment is on the sixth floor,” said Margaret, pointing to a corner apartment.

  “On the nights you watched,” asked Dewey, “where were the guards posted?”

  “They had three men on the sixth floor, one on the first, and some men in the stairs,” said Margaret. “We’ll be monitoring from a safe house across the river. If we see movement before your attack, we’ll call it off.”

  Dewey looked at his watch: 12:18 A.M. He glanced at Iverheart and Millar, then Margaret. He smiled at her. “Nice work. Thanks for your help.”

  “My pleasure, Dewey. Good luck, guys.”

  They followed Margaret through a small doorway, down an enclosed walkway, ducking their heads at the low ceiling height. They emerged into a garage bay. In the bay was an Isuzu minivan, rust-covered and layered in dents.

  They climbed in. Millar took the steering wheel. Dewey rode shotgun. Iverheart threw the weapons duffel in back, then climbed in. Margaret pulled her burka back up, then opened the garage door. Millar hit the gas, exited the small garage, turned right, and punched the old vehicle down the thin, dark street.

  43

  BENAZIR BHUTTO INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

  RAWALPINDI

  A teenager was the first to step into the bathroom. The boy’s name was Rasim and he was fourteen years old. He’d gone to the airport with his mother to meet his father, who was returning from London. He walked over to the urinals and, as he did so, looked down. He had a strange sensation then, realizing that he was standing in a pool of blood. For several moments, he stared in silence at the dark crimson that covered the linoleum. Then, he screamed.

  Rasim ran out of the bathroom, yelling hysterically. Just outside the doorway to the restroom, his high-pitched yelp caused most of the hundred or so people in the baggage claim area to turn. Rasim looked around, his mouth open, and tears began to drip down his cheeks. He saw his mother, who was walking quickly toward him. He sprinted at her, bloody tracks following him, left by his shoes, across the cement floor of the terminal.

  “What is it?” Rasim’s mother said as he fell into her arms. Involuntarily, he kept yelling. Then he pointed toward the restroom door.

  Two airport customs agents heard the screaming and approached the door. The first, a stocky, short man in a tan uniform, pulled his handgun from his waist holster.

  “Don’t let anyone in,” he said to the other agent. “Call Colonel Parakesh and then the ambulance.”

  He held his gun out, trained at the door, waited a few seconds, then pushed the door in, weapon raised. He stepped into the restroom with the weapon aimed straight ahead, then let the door close behind him.

  From the terminal, he heard the security siren begin to sound, loud then soft, loud then soft.

  The agent’s eyes registered the riot of blood covering the linoleum, deep maroon, almost black. His eyes followed the pool at the center of the room along its edges. It was coming from the stalls in the corner of the restroom. He inched forward, toward the stalls.

  “Hello?” he said. “Anyone here?”

  He pressed the microphone attached to his lapel.

  “Have you found Parakesh?” he asked.

  “No,” said the other agent. “He hasn’t responded.”

  The agent stepped gingerly into the sheen of wet blood and moved to the last stall, his eyes tracing the simple stream that coursed from beneath the stall door. At the stall, he reached out and pulled the handle back, swinging the door open. Lying in a contorted pile, he saw Parakesh. Beneath him, wedged against the toilet, he saw another body, Uruquin, another customs agent.

  He pressed the mic on his lapel.

  “I…” he whispered. He let the button go and tried to gather himself. He tried again. “I … I found them. Parakesh and Uruquin. They’re dead. They’ve been murdered.”

  “Shall I—”

  “Radio DIG Sahi at Capital Territory Police,” he said. “Tell him there’s been a double murder at Benazir Bhutto. Tell him Colonel Parakesh is among the dead.
Then shut down the airport.”

  44

  RAWALPINDI

  The minivan moved along the small, dark streets of Rawalpindi, dodging pedestrians as they walked in the night. Dewey glanced at his watch: 12:32 A.M.

  Millar drove in silence. They crossed a bridge into the southern edge of the large city and at Jinnah Road went left. They took Jinnah for several miles, through the heart of Rawalpindi. Even at this late hour, people were gathered late into the night. After a few more miles, they went right onto Iqbal Road, then took another right onto College Road and finally a left onto a small, dark street called Gowal Mandi.

  The sky was clouded over. Off the main boulevard, there was only ambient light.

  “There,” said Dewey, nodding to a large, white stucco apartment building, more than a dozen stories high.

  In front of the building, three black Range Rovers were parked. An armed soldier stood at the door, weapon raised. He registered the minivan as it passed.

  “Why don’t they just hang a fucking sign?” asked Iverheart.

  Millar drove past the apartment building without slowing down. He went six blocks south, then took a right, weaving back through the alleyway behind the row of apartment buildings.

  Millar parked the car next to a row of garbage cans several hundred feet south of the apartment building.

  Dewey, Iverheart, and Millar climbed out of the van. Each man was now stripped down to T-shirts. Shoulder holsters held their handguns, in front, they each carried MP7A1 submachine guns, nine-inch Gemtech suppressors screwed into the nozzles to soften the noise. Dewey flipped off the safety on his weapon, the others followed his lead. They pulled the ATN night vision goggles down, then flipped them on.

  They walked quickly down the alleyway, MP7s aimed forward as they moved quietly along. Dewey led the team along the back edge of the alley, hugging the shadows, shrouded in darkness.

  The men were soaking now in the intense humidity.

  Dewey smelled cigarette smoke. He held up his right hand. At the rear entrance, more than a hundred feet away, was a small orange ember.

  Dewey pointed at Millar.

  Millar lifted his goggles to his forehead, then raised the sniper rifle to his shoulder. He turned on the thermal sight. He took a few seconds to set the target through the red dot laser optic atop the weapon. Then he pulled the trigger. The slug hit the soldier dead center on his forehead. The force of the bullet ripped most of his head off while kicking his body backward, into the air, for a brief second before he tumbled into a pile.

  They ran quickly down the alley toward the back door to Karreff’s apartment building. Behind the corpse of the dead Pakistani soldier, Dewey found a handle, but the door was locked. He pulled a snap gun—a device for picking locks—from his pocket and picked the lock.

  Dewey entered first. Behind the door, a set of stairs led the men down into a darkened, musty-smelling basement-level room. Dewey moved quietly into the room, his goggles on, the machine gun out in front of him.

  Iverheart and Millar followed Dewey into the room. Through the door, into the basement’s hallway, then a set of stairs. Dewey cracked the door to the stairs and listened for nearly an entire minute. It was silent. Then, overhead, he heard the faint sound of chuckling. He stepped into the landing and found the light switch panel next to the door. He stepped back out into the basement hallway and closed the door slowly and silently.

  “We have two men on the stairs outside Karreff’s apartment,” whispered Dewey. “What else do we know, Van?”

  “You have one man on the first floor,” said Bradstreet into Dewey, Iverheart, and Millar’s earbuds. “The rest of the crew is upstairs, floor six.”

  “We’ll take out the first-floor man, then take the elevator two floors above and two floors below Karreff,” whispered Dewey. “Alex, you kill the lights on my signal, then Rob and I will take out the guys on the stairs. We’ll wait for you, then move on the main floor.”

  * * *

  Dewey and Iverheart climbed the stairs in silence. At the first floor, Dewey cracked the door open. A lone soldier, the one who’d been positioned outside, stood in the apartment building’s foyer. Dewey nodded to Iverheart, who held the door while Dewey moved his MP7 to his shoulder and aimed. He looked through the Zeiss red dot optic on top of the weapon, setting the small dot on the soldier’s cheek. The weapon made a dull thud as it fired.

  Dewey dragged the dead guard to the stairwell entrance while Iverheart pressed the elevator button.

  Dewey slung the MP7 over his back and pulled the Colt .45 from his shoulder holster as they stepped into the elevator. Dewey pressed the buttons for the fourth and eighth floors, two floors above and two floors below the sixth floor where Karreff was with his mistress.

  The elevator doors closed and they began to move.

  “COMM check,” said Dewey, holding his earbud.

  “Check,” said Iverheart.

  * * *

  “Okay here,” said Millar.

  Millar opened the door to the basement level landing of the stairwell and stepped inside. He could hear voices coming from above. He moved to the light switch panel, then pulled his goggles down over his eyes.

  * * *

  At the fourth floor, Iverheart stepped off the elevator. Next to the elevator was a light switch, which he flipped off, darkening the hallway.

  He pulled his ATN night vision goggles down over his eyes and moved to the stairwell door, waiting for Dewey. He extended the butt of the MP7, locked it in place, then moved the fire selector to full auto.

  “I’m in position,” said Iverheart into his earbud.

  * * *

  “Okay,” said Dewey as the elevator doors opened on the eighth floor. “Hold on.”

  Dewey stepped off the elevator. He flipped off the light switch, pulled down his goggles, then moved to the stairwell door. He extended the butt of his weapon, then moved the fire selector to full auto.

  “On one, we enter the stairs,” whispered Dewey. “Nice and calm, Once we’re inside, wait for me to give the go. Alex, don’t kill the lights until I give you the signal.”

  “Got it,” said Millar.

  “Three, two,” whispered Dewey, “one.”

  * * *

  Gently, Iverheart pulled the door to the stairs open, then stepped into the stair shaft at the fourth-floor landing.

  The voices of Karreff’s guards were louder now; they jabbered on distracted, oblivious.

  With his back against the wall, submachine gun in his left hand and aimed out in front of him, Iverheart moved silently up the stairs.

  * * *

  Dewey entered the stairwell at the eighth floor. He pressed his back against the wall, then moved down the stairs, feeling along the wall with his fingertips, in his right he held the MP7, suppressor jutting forward, trained down the empty stairwell in front of him.

  He could hear the voices of the two soldiers echoing up the stair shaft. Their voices helped to cloak whatever noise was coming from his movement down the stairs.

  At the seventh-floor landing, between iron bars on the stairwell bannister, Dewey eyed the red of one of the soldier’s berets.

  “Rob,” Dewey whispered.

  “In position,” whispered Iverheart.

  “Alex.”

  “Ready.”

  “On one, kill the lights,” said Dewey.

  * * *

  Iverheart felt perspiration dripping from his hair and face. His heart was racing now as he waited for Dewey to start the count. He aimed the MP7 out in front of him. He placed his right foot on the first stair, readying for the sprint up to the guards.

  “Three,” whispered Dewey into the earbud. “Two, one.”

  The stairwell went black. Iverheart sprinted up the stairs, leaping three steps at a time, guided by his night vision goggles. His silenced MP7 was trained in front of him as he climbed.

  He heard a panicked voice, then the faint thuds of weapon fire from above.

  As he rounded
the last corner before the sixth-floor landing he came upon one of the guards, running blindly down the stairs.

  * * *

  As the stairwell went dark, Dewey stepped to the railing, weapon forward, his finger on the steel trigger.

  Dewey examined—through night vision goggles—the landing one floor below.

  The soldier with the beret was looking about frantically, his world having gone abruptly black.

  Dewey aimed his weapon at him and fired. The soldier was knocked back onto the landing, where he tumbled to the ground. The other guard panicked, running down the stairs toward Iverheart.

  * * *

  As Iverheart made his way up the stairs, one of the soldiers came into view, clinging to the railing and moving down. Iverheart fired his silenced submachine gun, striking the soldier in the chest. The man fell, then rolled down stair after stair until his body stopped at Iverheart’s feet.

  * * *

  Dewey moved down the stairwell toward the landing. He came upon the soldier with the beret, contorted against the wall. He didn’t need to check and see if the man was dead; the right side of his face was missing.

  “Clear,” said Dewey.

  “Clear,” said Iverheart.

  * * *

  Millar’s footsteps came faintly up the stair shaft. He joined Dewey and Iverheart at the sixth-floor landing, stepping by the corpses of the soldiers.

  Dewey flipped a small light of his MP7 on, then removed his ATN goggles, which Iverheart and Millar did as well. In the dim light, he looked at the two young soldiers. He showed no emotion, but he felt it. For a brief moment, Dewey had a surge of feeling he’d long ago forgotten; the brotherhood of being a soldier.

  “Nice job with the lights,” whispered Dewey, trying to keep the mood light.

  “Thanks. It’s one of my specialties.”

  Dewey smiled at Millar. He was focused, but calm. He made it look easy, as if he’d been born into black-on-black operations. Dewey looked over at Iverheart. His eyes were as black as coal. Yet, they had something about them, a slightly mischievous aspect; Iverheart, it almost seemed, was having fun.