Coup d’État

by Ben Coes

  Fortuna’s head jerked back as his eyes focused for a second time on the slate deck surrounding the gunite pool. On the ground, in various states of contortion, lying in pools of blood, four armed guards lay dead.

  He reached his hand toward the door handle.

  “Don’t.”

  Fortuna turned to the table. Sitting at the head of the table was a man. He had a face Fortuna immediately recognized. Brown hair, cut short now. Penetrating, vicious eyes of stone blue. Older than the photograph, meaner. Adrenaline shot through Fortuna. In a strange way, he had found the quarry that for so long had eluded him. The man who had killed his son. But then, he realized, it was the quarry who had found the hunter, and that he would soon be like dust in a hurricane, wiped from the face of the earth forever.

  In the man’s hand, a weapon was trained casually upon him. Fortuna didn’t have to guess the make of the weapon. He already knew: Colt M1911 semiautomatic .45 caliber handgun. Screwed into the nozzle, Fortuna noticed, a long, black silencer, whose cap end hole was aimed directly at his skull.

  “Ever have one of those days you just wished you’d stayed in bed?” the man asked.

  Fortuna shut his eyes and shook his head.

  “Andreas,” he whispered.

  * * *

  Dewey stood up from the chair. He stepped calmly around the back of the table. He wore an old blue T-shirt, a large orange Puma logo on the front. Jeans. His boots made a loud tapping noise on the slate floor as he walked toward Fortuna, weapon trained at all times on the terrorist.

  Fortuna stepped away from the window. He faced Dewey, waiting for him as he walked toward him.

  “May I at least get a towel?” asked Fortuna, remaining still. “To cover myself?”

  Dewey walked around the long pine harvest table not answering.

  “Candela?” Fortuna asked.

  Still Dewey said nothing. He moved closer to Fortuna, keeping the silenced M1911 aimed at his skull.

  “I always suspected,” Fortuna said nervously. “Nebbie said, ‘Why would such a stunning girl as her be interested in someone as old as you?’ but I thought, perhaps, at first, it was about the money.”

  Dewey pulled the trigger. A mechanical thud sounded as a silenced .45 caliber slug tore into Fortuna’s left shoulder. Blood and flesh splattered across the glass behind him in the same moment the cartridge passed through the shoulder, shattering the glass door. Large pieces of glass rained loudly to the slate ground below. As if kicked in the chest by a horse, Fortuna was knocked backwards. He tumbled sideways onto the floor. An instant later, he screamed and reached his right hand reflexively up to grab at the wound. His hand returned, covered in blood. The side of his face and neck were dotted in crimson, splashed up from the shoulder.

  Dewey took another step forward. Fortuna turned from staring at his destroyed shoulder and looked up at him, a grimace of unspeakable pain on his sweat-covered face. Sweat covered his face. His breathing grew rapid.

  “There will be more,” Fortuna coughed.

  “That’s what your son said,” said Dewey. “Bring ’em on. I’m starting to like this.”

  Dewey aimed the handgun at Fortuna’s right foot and fired. A silenced bullet ripped into the front part of the foot, shattering the bones. Blood washed across his legs and torso from the shot. Fortuna screamed horrendously, tried to reach for the ruined foot, but could barely move because of the wound to his shoulder.

  “Nebuchar will hunt you down,” said Fortuna, struggling. “He’s the one. Alexander always had the poetic side, his mother’s side. But Nebuchar is pure stone. He’ll find you. He will—”

  Dewey pumped yet another slug. This one ripped into Fortuna’s right chest, silencing him. His head slammed back on the hard slate. His eyes shot back into his head as the pain went from acute to a level only people about to die know. Finally, he opened his eyes and looked up helplessly at Dewey.

  “If you had left me alone, you’d be sitting by the pool, drinking your chamomile tea right now,” said Dewey. “If Nebuchar minds his business, he has no reason to worry.”

  Dewey stepped closer, then trained the weapon at Fortuna’s head. He waited, one moment, then another. He watched as Fortuna’s eyes opened and shut, then opened again.

  “But if Nebuchar fucks with me he’ll die the same way as you and your precious Alexander: from a bullet stamped ‘Made in the U.S.A.’”

  Dewey flexed his finger on the steel trigger. A slug ripped out and tore a crisp, dime-sized black hole in the middle of Fortuna’s forehead.

  Dewey stared for a moment longer, turned, and stepped toward the door. He heard the teakettle beginning to whistle.

  As he crossed the kitchen, a thought came into his head, a memory, out of place, out of context, but there it was: a rain-soaked afternoon during Delta training so many years ago, running with a hundred-pound pack on his back through the North Carolina woods, torrential downpours, rain storms the likes of which Fort Bragg hadn’t seen in a generation; the water drenching his team in blinding sheets of warm, cleansing rainwater. The kind of afternoon no Delta likes, and yet, that was the memory he had at that moment. Like the rain that day, Dewey let the memory wash over him then, cleansing him as he walked the first steps that would take him away from the villa, from Broumana, from Lebanon, from the Middle East; the steps that would deliver him away from the war he knew had only just begun.

  84

  ISLAMABAD

  The black Mercedes limousine moved slowly out of the basement-level parking lot beneath Aiwan-e-Sadr. Two dark green PAF Humvees moved in front of the limousine. Behind the limousine, two more Humvees trailed.

  Inside the bulletproof Mercedes, President Xavier Bolin sat alone in the backseat, staring out the window.

  Constitution Avenue was quiet and empty. The protests that followed the removal of Omar El-Khayab had lasted for a week, but eventually the overwhelming force of the Pakistani Army, deployed in cities across Pakistan, had snuffed out the popular uprising before it spiraled out of control. Martial law, a general curfew, and an almost complete blackout of the media had succeeded in calming the country down. The fear of being locked up or shot had driven El-Khayab’s supporters back to their apartment buildings, back to their villages, back to their mosques, back to their caves. Most people assumed that hundreds had died in the aftermath of the regime change, but no one knew for sure except Bolin and his advisors. As of that morning, following yet another nighttime riot in the Taliban hotbed of Peshawar, the body count stood at more than two thousand dead Pakistani citizens, not including casualties of the war with India.

  Bolin reached for a small black button on the center armrest and pressed it. A thick sheet of black glass slid up behind the driver, sealing off and soundproofing the rear compartment. Bolin picked up the phone tucked into the armrest and dialed. He waited for the phone to ring.

  Bolin’s chest felt tight. He could feel his heart beating wildly.

  Bolin had accomplished many things in his career. He had risen to a rank in the military he never would have dreamed of when he first enlisted, the son of a factory worker. Bolin was proud of his accomplishments. But try as he might, his presidency was marred by what he had done to the Americans. He’d let his greed get the best of him.

  It had all been so chaotic. First, there was the war itself, days on end without sleep, the pressure of managing the rapidly escalating war with India. Then there came the unexpected, even bizarre use of the nuclear device by El-Khayab, a man Bolin already despised, and yet the leader of the country. Then there followed the constant fear that India would counterstrike at any moment with nukes of their own.

  And like a lightning strike, the most shocking event of all, the infiltration by the Americans.

  All of it, Bolin knew, had made him act irrationally. He wasn’t thinking correctly. Surely, no human being could be expected to act perfectly under such pressure. Yet, as much as Bolin sought to rationalize his horrid behavior, nothing could remove the stain of wha
t he had done. Bolin was ashamed of what he had done. He hated himself for doing it. But there was nothing he could do now except move on, put it behind him, forget about it.

  Bolin had already squirreled away nearly $30 million in a Swiss bank account by the time Aswan Fortuna offered him the staggering amount of money for Andreas. Like so many other military leaders in Pakistan, Bolin had figured out a clever way of skimming money from his own government. There were no victims. Everyone did it. Why, he asked himself as he listened to the phone begin to ring, why did he need more than the $30 million nest egg he’d already built for himself? The $30 million would have been more than enough. Now there was nothing. Not even one rupee. America had sucked the money out of his Swiss accounts within hours of the deal with Fortuna. So much for the vaunted secrecy and security of the Swiss banking system. America’s CIA hackers had found a crack in the Swiss armor quickly and easily. They’d sucked his thirty million out of Zurich faster than a vacuum cleaner sucking up a lint ball.

  Now Bolin had nothing.

  * * *

  “White House,” said the female voice.

  “Jessica Tanzer,” said Bolin.

  It was a call he did not want to make. He knew he had made her his eternal enemy by what he had done. Still, he also knew that he had to make the call. He braced himself. He could not show weakness, even though he felt truly weak.

  “Office of the national security advisor,” said a male voice.

  “May I speak with Jessica Tanzer?”

  “Who’s calling?” asked the receptionist.

  “This is President Xavier Bolin.”

  “Hold, please.”

  Bolin stared out the window as the motorcade crossed train tracks and headed into the Margalla Hills, north of Islamabad.

  There’s a way to do this, he thought to himself. Be strong and fearless.

  The phone clicked.

  “Jessica Tanzer’s office,” said a female voice.

  “Jessica Tanzer, please,” said Bolin.

  “And this is President Bolin?”

  “Yes.”

  “May I tell her what this is regarding?” asked the woman.

  “You can tell her that the president of the sixth-largest country in the world would like to speak with her,” said Bolin, a hint of impatience in his voice.

  Nice, he thought to himself.

  “Hold, please.”

  A few moments, then two beeps.

  “This is Jessica Tanzer.”

  “And this is Xavier Bolin,” said Bolin.

  “What do you want?” asked Jessica.

  “Ms. Tanzer, thank you for accepting my call,” said Bolin. “As angry as you might be at me, we both know that there is no benefit to either of us if our two countries are enemies. Therefore, I am apologizing to you. What I did was wrong. It was extremely wrong and it was reprehensible. I don’t blame you for being mad. All I can say is that it was the by-product of a week’s worth of no sleep, the stress of managing a war, and, I’m ashamed to say, my own greed. I can’t take back what I did. But I can say that I am sincerely sorry.”

  A long silence settled over the phone. Finally, Jessica cleared her throat.

  “Your apology means nothing to me,” said Jessica. “You killed two American soldiers who had just risked their lives for your country. You did it for money. You sold the leader of the team to a known terrorist. If it wasn’t for Israel, that terrorist would have tortured Dewey Andreas to death. You even kicked him in the head as he lay helpless on the ground. You are a vile creature, Bolin. If there is an afterlife, you will spend it in hell.”

  “I have gone on the record as saying that I am sorry,” said Bolin. “But now we need to find a way to work together.”

  “I agree that the United States and Pakistan must cooperate in the struggle to maintain stability in the region,” said Jessica. “But you and I will never work together.”

  Bolin shook his head.

  “There’s something else I’d like to talk about,” said Bolin.

  “And what is that?” asked Jessica.

  “I want my money back,” said Bolin.

  “Your money?”

  “The money that America stole from my bank account,” said Bolin.

  “Unbelievable,” said Jessica, bitter laughter echoing over the phone.

  “I’m not referring to Aswan Fortuna’s money,” said Bolin. “You can keep that. As I said, I should not have done what I did. But when your CIA hackers were in there taking those funds, they swiped everything, including money that was mine, thirty million dollars.”

  “The money you stole from your own government,” said Jessica.

  “It’s irrelevant how I earned that money,” snapped Bolin. “The point is, I want it back.”

  * * *

  Jessica listened to Bolin’s deep voice booming over the phone, sensing his anger. It made her happy, the angrier he became.

  Jessica was seated in a windowless room four stories below ground at CIA Headquarters in Langley, Virginia. The room looked like the cockpit of a spaceship.

  In front of her, seated in a large, tan leather captain’s chair, his back turned, was a UAV pilot. In front of him, a pair of thirty-inch plasma screens displayed black-and-white video, from the sky, of a road. He grasped a pair of joysticks which he maneuvered; they controlled a MQ-9 Reaper armed with Hellfire missiles, which was now flying quietly in the air above Islamabad.

  Holding the phone against her ear, Jessica covered the mouthpiece with her left hand.

  “Have we got it yet?” she asked.

  Hector Calibrisi stood against the wall, holding the phone to his ear, listening.

  “Not there yet,” said the pilot. As he maneuvered the two hand controls, the images became focused, the road coming into sharp relief.

  “How much longer?” she whispered.

  “I almost got it,” said the pilot. “Give me a sec.”

  Jessica removed her hand from the mouthpiece of the phone.

  “Tell me,” said Jessica, speaking to Bolin. “I’m just curious. Why do you need the money?”

  “It’s none of your business,” answered Bolin.

  Jessica stared over the shoulder of the Reaper pilot, watching as the screen suddenly found a line of cars on the road, like small toys.

  “It might be none of my business,” said Jessica, staring at the plasma screen, “but I’m the one with the money. I’d like to know how you intend to spend it.”

  “I won’t be president of Pakistan forever,” said Bolin. “Someday, I will retire. Perhaps soon. When I do, I will need resources, just like any ex–head of state.”

  The cars grew larger on the screen. The long black limousine became defined, the image crisp and precise; a Mercedes, its distinctive, round hood ornament visible as the Reaper honed in on its target.

  “Why don’t you just steal some more?” asked Jessica. “You’re president now. Just steal a few hundred million.”

  Jessica smiled at Calibrisi, who shook his head.

  “Troublemaker,” he whispered, his hand over the phone.

  “You think this is funny?” said Bolin, surprised, then exasperated at Jessica’s needling. “You steal my money and you sit there in your office in Washington laughing about it? I’m not asking for the thirty million. I am demanding it.”

  The Reaper pilot pressed a red button on the right-hand control and a green rectangular digital box appeared on the lower of the two screens, surrounding Bolin’s limousine. The pilot pressed another button on the control and, within the rectangular box, bold green target lines appeared. At the center of the lines, a round circle locked in on the limousine.

  The Reaper pilot turned to Jessica. He smiled at her and nodded, indicating that the ten-million-dollar UAV, with its quartet of $75,000 Hellfire missiles, was ready.

  “Thirty million dollars is a lot of money,” said Jessica. She smiled and glanced at Calibrisi. “I don’t think you’re going to need that much.”

  “
What are you talking about?” Bolin asked, his frustration turning to anger. “What business is it of yours how much I need?”

  Jessica walked to the pilot. He flipped open a metal cap on top of the joystick. Beneath the cap was a red button. The pilot turned to Jessica.

  “It just seems like a waste,” said Jessica, moving her left middle finger to the red button atop the joystick. “To give a dead man thirty million dollars.”

  “Goddamn you!” Bolin screamed, so loud that both Jessica and Calibrisi had to move the phones away from their ears. “How dare you threaten—”

  “Look up in the sky,” said Jessica. “That’s America flying over your head. I’ll see to it that the money goes to the families of the two soldiers you murdered. Goodbye, Mr. Bolin. Good riddance.”

  Jessica pressed the red button. She watched on the plasma as, a moment later, a silent burst of smoke and flames exploded out from the road where the limousine had been driving, smoldering from the wreckage.

  “Nice shot,” said Calibrisi. “You’re a natural.”

  She stared at Calibrisi for a moment, saying nothing.

  “He deserved it,” said Calibrisi.

  “Is Itrikan Parmir in place?” she asked.

  “He’s all set,” said Calibrisi. “Lerik, the military, and the Pakistani parliament are all supportive. General Parmir will be sworn in within the hour.”

  Jessica patted the UAV pilot on the back, then reached for her Louis Vuitton briefcase, picked it up, and stepped toward the door.

  “You want to grab a drink?” asked Calibrisi, picking up his beat-up leather briefcase. “It’s Friday. Been a long week. I could certainly use a beer or three right now.”

  “I’d love to, but I can’t. I’m picking someone up at the airport.”

  “Oh?” asked Calibrisi, following her through the door, past two armed guards, down the corridor. “Anyone I know?”

  Jessica smiled, but said nothing. At the end of the hallway, they walked past another armed guard and climbed aboard an elevator. The doors shut and the elevator began to move up.