Coup d’État

by Ben Coes

  “How much?”

  “Ten million euros.”

  “Is this why you came here, to collect the money?”

  Aswan Fortuna paused, then reached his hand out and placed it on his son’s knee.

  “I realize what a bad father I’ve been to you. I’m sorry.”

  Nebuchar looked down at his father’s hand on his knee.

  “I want to talk to you about the money,” said Aswan. “The money that Alexander left us, the money that funds jihad.”

  “A billion?” asked Nebuchar. “Two?”

  “Twelve billion.”

  Nebuchar sat up. He leaned forward, incredulous, taking another cigarette and lighting it. “I knew it was more than a billion, but—”

  “Yes. Your brother was a prodigy.”

  “Yes, he obviously was. Unlike me. Is that what you’re thinking, Father?”

  “No, it’s not what I’m thinking. I’m getting old. I’m making you trustee, Nebuchar. You’ll have a fiduciary relationship to the funds. You will have access to the money, and, as you will come to understand, you will take on the responsibilities of the money. There are many people who depend upon the money, many groups.”

  “Groups? Hezbollah?”

  “Hezbollah, Al-Qaeda, Lashkar-e-Taiba, Taliban, Hamas, Islamic Jihad, Muslim Brotherhood. These are the main ones. But there are dozens of others you don’t know about. We fund splinters; a small group who breaks off from Al-Qaeda, for example, we will back them. We don’t choose sides and we don’t tell them what to do, as long as the group believes in violent jihad.”

  “How much did we spend to sponsor them last year?”

  “Last year, the total was six hundred and eighteen million dollars. Much of that paid for IEDs used in Iraq. The details are all in here.”

  Fortuna handed the folder to Nebuchar.

  “In addition, we fund more than nine hundred madrasas throughout the Middle East, Africa, Europe, and Indonesia. That number is growing.”

  “What is that number?”

  “Last year, we spent almost two hundred million on the schools. That’s our future. If I could spend more, I would.”

  “How does this all happen?”

  “Ah, yes, it sounds complicated. It is complicated. Alexander designed it all. There are three primary agents: one in Moscow, one in London, one in Dubai. They handle the disbursement of funds. They’re paid monthly from different accounts. These accounts are in banks all over the Middle East and Europe, even a few in Russia and Canada. Accounts are set up automatically each month based on a sequential series of numbers. For example, three accounts every month are established with an account number that is your birthday followed by the date the account is established. These new accounts are funded by the oldest accounts, which are wound down. It’s automated.”

  “Will the money eventually run out?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Aswan. “The money is invested, also automated. The financial institutions are selected by the three agents.”

  “Are they aware of what you’re doing?”

  “Yes, of course. They’re believers. But the institutions themselves are oblivious. As for the recipients, they are largely successful in masking where the money comes from. It’s always the challenge. The CIA, MI6, Interpol, are constantly on the trail. Because it’s so dispersed now, we are able to suffer the loss of one account. Lashkar-e-Taiba, for example, has accounts all over the place: Montreal, Moscow, Dubai, UAE, despite the fact that the money is used exclusively in Pakistan.”

  Nebuchar flipped through the folder.

  “Your brother was indeed a financial genius,” said Aswan. “Alexander’s greatest gift to jihad is that he guaranteed its funding into the distant future. Perhaps until its ultimate victory.”

  “What do you want me to do with this?” he asked, holding the folder open.

  “Put it somewhere safe. Learn it. Ask me questions. It’s time for you to begin to play the role that you must play, Nebuchar. And I must begin to teach you. I must also begin to treat you like a son. We have a great deal to be thankful for.”

  Nebuchar stared at his father. He smiled.

  “Would you like to share a glass of wine, Papa?” asked Nebuchar.

  “Yes, that would be nice, Nebbie.”

  47

  RAWALPINDI

  Margaret met Dewey, Iverheart, and Millar in the back alley and took Karreff’s mistress. With her was a pair of men, both dressed in bishts.

  “Who are they?” asked Dewey.

  “Cleanup crew,” Margaret said.

  “Check the basement and the stairwells,” said Dewey. “And get rid of the Range Rovers out front.”

  * * *

  Iverheart drove the minivan and turned out of the alleyway behind the apartment building, retracing their path back to Jinnah Boulevard.

  Dewey glanced at his watch. Nearly 2:00 A.M. He sat in the back of the minivan. Millar sat to his right, bouncing his left leg up and down, the adrenaline flowing.

  “How bad is it?” Dewey asked, looking at Millar’s neck.

  Millar pulled the blood-soaked neckline of his dark T-shirt down. The wound was covered by a small dishcloth soaked with blood.

  Dewey reached up, flipped on the light of the minivan, then pulled off the towel.

  The bullet had penetrated the skin and muscle at the very juncture of the neck and shoulder line. A small, black hole was ruptured and torn, blood coursed out.

  “Half an inch and it would’ve hit the carotid. You’re lucky you’re not dead.”

  From a small brown duffel bag, Dewey removed the IFAK. Inside was a small plastic package which he ripped open. He took out a presutured needle.

  Dewey looked at Iverheart in the rearview mirror.

  “Pull over.”

  Iverheart turned the minivan into a parking lot, next to a squat cement building, now dark. He extinguished the vehicle’s lights.

  Millar leaned his head against the front seat so that Dewey had a clear view of the wound beneath the overhead light.

  Dewey took the sutured needle and stuck it into Millar’s neck, puncturing the skin beneath the bullet wound.

  “Oh, fuck,” groaned Millar. “That hurts.”

  Dewey pulled the needle through the skin, stitching up the wound. In less than two minutes, Millar’s bullet hole had been crudely sutured.

  Dewey placed the needle back in the IFAK. He removed a small tin canister filled with clotting agent. Dewey took a large pinch of the powder and sprinkled it on the wound. Millar flinched as he spread it around the suture. Dewey placed a large bandage over the wound and taped it securely to Millar’s shoulder.

  “Let’s go.”

  * * *

  Iverheart drove to the eastern section of Rawalpindi by Raval Lake, which they could see in the distance, illuminated by the moon. After several more miles, Iverheart took a left onto an unmarked dirt road, then took a right into a deserted field. There they saw the sudden, sharp metallic outlines of the Black Hawk.

  Iverheart parked the minivan. The pilot started the chopper. Within two minutes, they were airborne.

  The Black Hawk flew across the dark sky at nearly two hundred miles per hour. It stayed low, at less than five hundred feet, moving to the east, toward the war front in Kargil. The chopper flew in darkness, the pilot relying on instruments and night vision technology.

  Dewey stepped into the cockpit and tapped the pilot on the shoulder.

  “ETA?” asked Dewey.

  “Forty-five minutes,” said the pilot.

  “We need to move drop-off,” said Bradstreet over the COMM bud. “I’m sending the coordinates right now.”

  “Why?” asked Dewey.

  “You’ve got heavy air fire in the corridor east of Drass all the way to Kargil. The National Highway is getting worse. Both sides are blowing everything out of the sky. You need to drop off farther back in the Pakistan supply line.”

  “Is Bolin still at the target?”

  “A
ffirmative. Bolin hasn’t moved, but you do not have a clear flight path. I don’t want you to get shot down.”

  “What about the approach to the building?”

  “Target is a high point-of-view structure. A house at the edge of Drass on the front side of a hill. Your team needs to come up from the south. There’s a reservoir at the base of the hill. Target is due north from the reservoir, straight up the hill, maybe a mile.”

  Dewey looked at his watch: 4:10 A.M. He moved into the cabin.

  Millar reached into his vest and removed a small tin. He quickly spread black on his face then passed it to Iverheart, who did the same, followed by Dewey. Millar handed Iverheart and Dewey each a small plastic packet no bigger than a cigarette pack. Inside, raw protein in thick, agarlike syrup form, enough nutrient to sustain them for a week, if necessary.

  After flying for a half hour, the pilot reached his hand up and showed five fingers outspread, closed it, then opened the fist again: ten minutes.

  They checked their weapons and packed ammunition and grenades into the pockets of their vests.

  Dewey stared out the chopper window. The peaks of the Himalayas were visible in sudden, sporadic bursts of light from mortar fire in the valley beyond.

  A bright light flashed beneath them. A burst rocked the chopper, kicking it violently sideways.

  Out the right window, the horizon was increasingly dominated by orange and red flare-ups as the chopper moved closer to Drass. The steady sound of detonations could be heard across the night air as fires burned on distant hills.

  The outline of the battle was illuminated by fires. This was the heart of the battle—epicenter of the rapidly escalating war.

  Dewey leaned forward.

  “The drop-off has been moved,” said Dewey over the din of the rotors. “We’re going to need to hijack a vehicle.”

  “Is there a contingency?” asked Iverheart.

  “Contingency?”

  “If Bolin’s not there.”

  “The contingency is to get the hell out of Kashmir.”

  The chopper’s nose arced down and shifted left. The chopper flew over a tree line, then a cluster of small huts in a village now consumed in flames.

  Another loud blast ripped the air. The chopper bounced hard. A mortar burst more than a mile away, its reverberation strong enough to send a shock wave through the chopper.

  They passed over a mountain ridge and a great valley lay in front of them.

  Like a curtain being opened, the combat theater spread out before them across the shelf of the dark valley.

  Dewey stood, leaned into the cockpit, and registered the sight.

  The battle lines spread for at least ten miles in two long corridors east to west. India was in the far distance, Pakistan closer. In between the two lines of combatants, the valley was dark.

  In the orange light of the mortar fire, batteries of Pakistani soldiers were visible from above. Soldiers gathered in groups behind mortar cannons staged every hundred yards or so. There were thousands of men, spread out in a line as far as the eye could see.

  Behind the front line, a supply highway wound east into the mountains. Trucks, troop carriers, fuel tankers, and other machinery rumbled along, the small yellow headlights flickering in a line that stretched back toward Rawalpindi.

  A mortar blast hit the Pakistani supply line. The line of vehicles, like an ant trail, was lit up in the sudden burst of light. A constellation of flames came next. Several vehicles were now consumed by fire. One gas tanker burst into spectacular red and gold flames.

  The chopper moved in a straight line parallel to the supply highway, closer and closer to the front. It bounced and heaved as high-altitude winds roiled the air.

  Dewey glanced at Millar and Iverheart. Their faces were now darkened in black war paint. Millar had changed from his bloody T-shirt into a long-sleeve shirt.

  They had completed the first part of the mission, but time was running out, and they all knew it. In addition to the looming Indian deadline, there was now the added set of complications that would soon be created by Karreff’s disappearance. Despite Margaret’s clean-up crew, his absence would inevitably trigger a reaction, most likely defensive in nature. Perhaps moving El-Khayab into hiding. Or, if the Pakistanis thought his disappearance was part of an operation, perhaps another nuclear strike on India.

  Dewey tried to put the time pressure out of his mind. He needed to be calm. He needed to show confidence, for it was confidence above all that would enable Dewey and his team to insert themselves like a scalpel into heart of Pakistan’s war command.

  The pilot waved Dewey forward.

  “I need to put you guys down,” the pilot barked over the din of the chopper. “There’s shit flying everywhere.”

  “Put it down over there,” said Dewey, pointing to the line of trucks headed toward the front. “Just off the supply line.”

  The chopper swung right and descended toward the Pakistani supply highway. Within a minute the Black Hawk was hovering above the ground.

  Dewey, Millar, and Iverheart pulled their night goggles down. Iverheart reached out and opened the door to his right. Dewey leapt from the chopper, followed by Millar and Iverheart.

  Seconds later, the chopper lifted back up into the dark sky, turning north and disappearing. They were on their own.

  48

  RASHTRAPATI BHAVAN

  NEW DELHI

  President Ghandra looked out the two-story window onto the square in front of Rashtrapati Bhavan, the presidential palace. Hundreds of small flames danced in the blackness, candles mostly, along with the occasional burning fire, a Pakistani flag being lit up or else a photograph of Omar El-Khayab being torched. He looked at his watch. It was past four in the morning.

  There was a knock at the door, then, before he could say anything, Indra Singh entered.

  “It’s four in the morning,” said Ghandra. “Why are you still awake?”

  “Why am I still awake?” Singh asked rhetorically in disbelief. “Your country is on fire, Mr. President. Is there anyone alive who isn’t awake?”

  “The crowd has grown larger.”

  “Gate thirty-five is a bloody mess,” said Singh, referring to the entrance into Rashtrapati Bhavan. He walked into the spacious living room. He placed his leather briefcase down on the leather sofa and sat down. He was sweating profusely. “The crowd is like rabid wolves. Since when are we the enemy?”

  “What do you mean?” asked Ghandra.

  “What do I mean?” asked Singh, incredulous. “The only reason they haven’t stormed the gates of the palace is because of the twenty thousand men that General Nair has placed between them and you.”

  Ghandra stood at a window, looking down on the square in front of the palace. The square was packed with people, most holding candles.

  “How many people are there?” asked Ghandra.

  “Nair estimates one hundred thousand. It felt bigger. You’re isolated up here, Mr. President. You can barely hear them. A group of young thugs attempted to flip over my limousine. They want to know why we haven’t counterattacked El-Khayab.”

  Ghandra turned from the window.

  “Did you tell them about the coup?” asked Ghandra, grinning.

  “You think it’s funny!” yelled Singh. “There are riots in Hyderabad, Bhopal, Chandigarh, and Mumbai. In southern Delhi, someone burned photos of you at a demonstration.”

  Ghandra walked from the window to a large mahogany cabinet, where he turned a key and opened the doors. Inside was a bar. He poured himself a glass of Beefeaters. He walked to the sofa and sat down at the opposite end of the sofa from Singh.

  Ghandra took a big sip from his glass of gin, but said nothing.

  “I told you the anger would rise,” said Singh. “You didn’t listen. The people of India want answers. You sit here isolated from it all while the people of India wonder if they even have a leader. With each passing minute of silence, they become more bitter and more embarrassed. ‘Has Rajiv
no pride?’ my own wife asked me.”

  “If I had listened to you, I would have gotten the people of India so riled up that any sort of peaceful resolution would have been impossible. At this moment, they would be tearing down the palace. If I had listened to you, Pakistan would no longer exist and there would be hundreds of millions of people dead in both countries. We would probably be dead too, Indra. Your advice grows more foolish and idiotic by the hour. Get some sleep. The Americans are on schedule and the coup is going to work.”

  “And if it doesn’t?”

  “If it doesn’t, we will attack.”

  “The irony, Rajiv,” said Singh, “is that your desire for a coup d’état in Pakistan could lead to a coup in your own country.”

  “Is that a threat, Indra?”

  “No, it’s a plea from your oldest and dearest friend,” said Singh, leaning forward, his face contorted and red with emotion. “Your own military is questioning your strategy. They talk openly of your willpower.”

  “And what would you have me do?” asked Ghandra.

  “Hit back. Launch the nuclear attack right now! Apologize to the Americans later. El-Khayab is laughing at us right now. Osama Khan is painting the targets for the next attack. These men are radical jihadists. They want to push it further.”

  Ghandra stared down into the clear liquid in his glass. He lifted the patterned crystal glass to his lips and bolted the rest of the gin down.

  The sound of breaking glass caused both men to jump up from the leather sofa. A rock smashed through the window just to the left of where Ghandra had been standing, then rolled on the green and red oriental carpet.

  Ghandra stood up, stepped around the sofa, and walked to the rock, leaned down, and picked it up. It was approximately the size of a baseball.

  “A good arm, perhaps we can recruit him to play for the Daredevils,” he said, referring to New Delhi’s professional cricket team.

  Singh stared at Ghandra for several moments, then smiled.