by Ben Coes
At the same instant, Tacoma pumped the triggers on his guns, blasting a guard to Bhutta’s left through the eye socket, then, to that guard’s left, another thug, a slug through the forehead.
It all took less than three seconds.
Bhutta lurched at Foxx amid the tornado of wood dust and blood that quickly fogged the small elevator in chaos.
The last Iranian, immediately to Tacoma’s right, found his handgun in his shoulder holster, pulled it.
Bhutta dived toward Foxx, but she greeted his lurching frame with a quick, brutal martial kick to the neck, which sent him flying backward and down, landing awkwardly on top of one of his dead security guards. Bhutta watched from the ground, helpless, clutching his throat as Tacoma finished off his last surviving security guard with a bullet through his neck, dropping him before he could get a shot off.
Tacoma turned, pulled the red emergency door alarm. The elevator came to an immediate, rough stop. The floor counter read two.
Tacoma removed a small silver key from his pants pocket. He stuck it in the console above the alarm. Turning it, the elevator moved again.
“Who are you?” asked Bhutta as Foxx moved above him, Colt trained at his skull.
The elevator bypassed the first floor. It continued down into the building’s basement.
“Stand up, Mr. Ambassador,” said Foxx calmly, staring hard into the black eyes of the Iranian ambassador.
The elevator came to a stop at B4, a service floor in the building’s basement. The doors opened. Waiting outside the doors was Dewey; dressed in jeans and a blue button-down shirt, his arms crossed on his chest in front of him. His bright blue eyes were as blank, as expressionless, as stone. Behind him were two men, machine guns trained on the elevator door. Behind them, a black Chevy Suburban.
“We need a cleanup crew,” said Foxx to one of the men behind Dewey.
Dewey stared at Bhutta, still down inside the elevator.
The Iranian looked thoroughly confused and disheveled, and he struggled to stand. He looked around him as he made it to his feet. Along the back wall of the elevator, five corpses lay in a growing pool of crimson, which moved quickly across the tan carpet.
“This is against the law,” said Bhutta, regathering himself, anger and outrage in his voice, sticking his finger out toward Dewey. “It’s against international law!”
“Shut the fuck up,” interrupted Dewey, grabbing Bhutta’s outstretched hand, quickly flipping his wrist backward, then yanking his arm behind his back and thrusting him toward the back door of the Suburban. “You’re the last son of a bitch I want to hear talk about international law.”
31
ABOARD BOEING P-8A POSEIDON RECONNAISSANCE UNIT 995
AKA DOUBLE JEOPARDY
1,190 MILES OFF THE COAST OF NEWFOUNDLAND
The sea, this far north in the Atlantic Ocean, lay cold and empty. A horizon of black. Brutal, shearing winds cut like a knife through salty, rain-soaked air. Jagged, foam-crossed peaks of massive waves stretched in steady lines for literally hundreds of miles, followed by stunning, deep black canyons that dropped like cliffs into the chasm.
Here, in the waters above the Mid-Atlantic Ridge, sunset had come quickly. To anyone unlucky enough to actually be here on this night, the passage from dark gray to black was practically a nonevent. It was a place uninhabited by anyone or anything; endless, black, bitterly cold, infinitely turbulent.
The waves out here, more than a thousand miles from either North America or Europe, moved like walls of granite, their force more powerful by far than any tidal wave to ever strike land. The fact that the waves moved in steady succession for weeks on end only served to make the point that what the ocean finally does send ashore is but a dim shadow of the epic forces at work in the deep ocean.
Above the sea’s disorder, six miles directly overhead, the sky was black and clear, covered in stars and an orange half-moon. An unmarked, unlit jet moved at more than 700 miles per hour toward London. Except for a small panel of one-way glass at the front of the fuselage, the gray-black plane was windowless. External lights were extinguished, replaced by infrared beacons that were usually kept in the off position. The effect was that of a dark mantis, the proverbial black cat, moving surreptitiously, invisibly through a barren sky.
Six round communications disks, each the size of a car tire, lay at regular intervals across the top of the fuselage. Strapped to the underwings of the dark plane were twelve missiles; a combination of AGM-114 Hellfire air-to-surface missiles and AIM-120 advanced medium-range air-to-air missiles. All of the plane’s missiles could, if necessary, be targeted using passive infrared and low-light-level television sensor systems. It wasn’t normal for a P-8A to have missiles, but then, this wasn’t a normal P-8A. The entire surface of the strange angular-looking jet was coated in dielectric composites, designed to appear transparent to radar, then covered in matte paint. Multistatic radar acted to disperse incoming radar signals. The leading edges of the plane’s wings and the tail surfaces were set at the same angle, as were the air-intake bypass doors and the air-refueling aperture; the effect of this so-called planform alignment was to return a radar signal in a very specific direction away from the radar emitter rather than returning a diffuse signal detectable at many angles.
Even if someone was in a plane flying within a few hundred feet of the mysterious object, they would not have been able to see the plane, unless a cut of light from the moon illuminated the silhouette of the dark, fast-moving object. But then, the plane’s antiaircraft defenses would have long since torched any would-be witness long before they had gotten within viewing distance of the $1.6 billion technological marvel known by its owners, the Central Intelligence Agency, as Double Jeopardy. So called because, among other covert activities, it was aboard this plane that questions were asked; it was here that interrogations of high-value terror prisoners took place, away from the rules and regulations associated with specific geographies. Technically, at times like tonight, the 1,400 square feet of territory now encased within the plane’s hard steel frame occupied a time and a place that in legal terms did not exist. Double Jeopardy was a lawless country.
* * *
Dewey and Tacoma exited the conference room. Tacoma carried a large IBM laptop. They walked down the plane’s windowless corridor. After passing three of the interrogation rooms, all empty, they came to the fourth. The ceiling lights in the room were lit. Light poured through the one-way glass. They came to the glass and stopped, looking inside.
Bhutta, seated beneath bright LED strips, was sweating profusely. His black hair, flecked with gray, was drenched atop his head, as if he’d just returned from a long run. He was shirtless. His body was wrinkled and soft, years of easy diplomatic work, late-night meals, and no exercise revealed themselves through his pasty, light brown skin. He wore black slacks. His bare feet were shackled to the steel chair. His torso also. Bhutta’s hands were cuffed out in front of him. His right leg bounced nervously up and down. He glanced about the empty room, nervously.
At the door, Dewey reached his hand out, then paused.
“Your guy’s in place?”
“Danny’s all set,” said Tacoma. “I’ll pipe him in.”
Dewey unbolted the door and they entered, Tacoma first, Dewey shutting the door behind him.
Bhutta looked up, momentarily surprised. He blinked his eyes, trying to focus.
“Water,” Bhutta said. “Please.”
“When we’re done,” answered Dewey. “As much water as you can drink.”
“Where am I?” asked Bhutta. His eyes moved from Dewey to Tacoma then back to Dewey.
Tacoma stepped to the steel conference table, setting the laptop on top of the shining steel, in front of Bhutta. Dewey stood behind Bhutta.
“Where am I?” Bhutta repeated, pleading.
Tacoma typed into the computer, not responding.
“Please,” said Bhutta.
“In a plane,” said Dewey. “A big plane. Pilots, engine
s, wings, that sort of thing. You’ve been on a plane before, yes, Mr. Ambassador?”
“Where are we going?” asked Bhutta. “Where?” he asked again, anger in his voice. “Tell me!”
Tacoma’s eyes looked up briefly, calmly, from the laptop at the inflection in Bhutta’s voice. His eyes met Dewey’s. Then he looked back without saying anything.
“Israel?” asked Bhutta. “Is that it? Where are we going, Mossad?”
“Where are we going?” answered Dewey pleasantly. “I can tell you where we are going. We are going to find Kohl Meir, who you kidnapped from a sidewalk in New York. We, however, does not include you, Mr. Ambassador. You are going to a different place. You are going to a small, windowless room in a nondescript building on the outskirts of London where you will remain and where you will help us until Kohl Meir is returned. What happens next is not up to me to say. What I do know is you’re going to help us, Mr. Ambassador.”
“Who is Kohl Meir?” Bhutta asked. “I know nothing—”
“Stop the bullshit,” interrupted Dewey, crossing his arms.
He moved around Bhutta, in front of the table, and glared at the Iranian.
“We know that you had knowledge of Meir’s abduction. Don’t waste my time. Do you think we don’t have the capability to listen to what your VEVAK goons plan out of the consulate?”
“I knew nothing.”
“Okay, okay, whatever,” answered Dewey, shaking his head. “I don’t care about that anyway. It doesn’t matter. Kohl is gone. He’s taken. We know you knew, Bhutta, you little fuckhead. But even if you didn’t know, it doesn’t change a thing. We’re not here to establish your guilt or innocence. Frankly, I don’t care.”
“So you think you can kidnap a sitting ambassador to the United Nations in direct violation of international law?” asked Bhutta. “Do you understand the implications? This is an act of war.”
“Kidnap?” asked Dewey, a smile spreading across his lips. “You weren’t kidnapped. At least, if you were, we can’t seem to find any witnesses.”
“There will be such an outcry.”
“From who?” asked Dewey, looking inquisitively at Bhutta, then grinning and shaking his head. “Do you actually think anyone in the world gives a damn about you? You’re the world’s pariah. Nava? I mean, come on, give me a fucking break. Besides, your government will have much more to deal with in the coming hours than simply the loss of its ambassador to the UN.”
Bhutta stared at Dewey for several moments, then shut his eyes. He sat quietly as Tacoma leaned down and typed into the laptop.
“You can wear your Hermès and go to nice restaurants but we all know your past. You’ll help us. You designed this hit, we know you did. You’ll help us get Kohl back.”
“I won’t,” said Bhutta angrily. “Fuck you.”
“Oh, I think you will,” answered Dewey. “I just have a feeling. I have a feeling I can convince you. I can appeal to that human side of you we all know is in there somewhere.”
Tacoma turned to Dewey and smiled. He typed a few more strokes, then stood up.
“We’re good to go,” Tacoma said.
Dewey leaned down, placing his right hand on the table.
“We need your help,” said Dewey. “We know you’re one of the top officers in the Ministry of Intelligence. We know you’ve been one of the principal architects of the Iranian covert war on American troops inside Iraq. We know you’re connected. You have the capability to help us now.”
“I know torture,” said Bhutta. “I’m willing to die for my country.”
“Is Mira?” Dewey asked.
Bhutta looked at Dewey, curious, speechless, a rising tide of shock and anger on his face. His eyes shot to the computer screen. He studied the screen, blinking, leaning in closer, trying to lurch at the screen, his torso restrained to the steel chair, which was bolted to the ground.
“Mira,” Bhutta whispered, his eyes bulging, transfixed.
“Ah, yes, that’s the question now, Mr. Ambassador,” said Dewey, looking down at the computer screen. “Have they been trained to endure torture? You would know better than me.”
On the computer screen was a live video, the picture decent if slightly grainy, of a hotel suite. Inside, a young woman with long black hair sat on the edge of a massive bed. To her side, three children sat. They were watching something on the television in front of them.
“Dora,” said Dewey. “Can you hear it? They’re watching Dora the Explorer.”
Dewey leaned down and hit a key. Suddenly the sound of the cartoon grew louder.
“Mira!” screamed Bhutta at the computer, his face turning red. “Mira! Run, dear!”
“She can’t hear you,” said Dewey.
“You…” Bhutta tried to speak, but struggled to catch his breath.
“You don’t like that feeling? Watching someone you love who’s been kidnapped? Funny how it feels, isn’t it?”
Bhutta paused and tried to collect himself. He shot Dewey a look.
“A lie,” he said. “This is old film.”
Dewey shook his head. He nodded at Tacoma, who pulled a cell phone from his pocket.
“Danny,” Tacoma said. “Flick the lights in the room.” He glanced at Bhutta. “How many times, Mr. Ambassador?”
Bhutta said nothing.
“Flick them three times,” said Tacoma.
On the screen, the hotel room suddenly went dark for a split second, then lit up as the lights were back and on. Bhutta’s daughter looked around the room, wondering what was going on. She stared in the direction of the camera. For the first time, the look of fear and stress could be seen on her young face. The lights were turned off and on two more times.
“If I want,” said Dewey, a stony look on his face, “I could have someone come in and cuff your daughter a few times, just to prove it to you.”
“Savages!” Bhutta screamed. “You would torture a little child.”
“We will do anything to retrieve Kohl Meir,” said Dewey, anger in his voice rising like mercury. He paused. “Anything to stop Iran from detonating a nuclear bomb in Tel Aviv.”
Bhutta looked up, unable to hide his surprise.
“Yes, I know about it,” said Dewey. “And the sooner you understand I mean business, the sooner we can begin, and the sooner your daughter and her children, your grandchildren, can leave that room and walk back to their lives.”
“You would torture—”
“No!” screamed Dewey, anger and fury exploding in his voice. He lurched suddenly out across the table and slapped Bhutta ferociously across the face. Blood shot from the Iranian’s mouth from the vicious slap. “You would torture them! You alone! It’s in your hands and your hands alone!”
“Leave them alone!” begged Bhutta, wiping his face of the blood. “They’re innocent!”
“It will start with the youngest first,” barked Dewey. “Do you hear me? Your daughter will watch. The youngest will be taken. She’ll be flown to the United States. She’ll be placed in a foster home. Your daughter will never see her again. You’ll watch your daughter’s reaction as we remove her children in this way, one by one. And then, when her children are gone, we’ll beat your daughter until either you talk or she dies. Do you understand? Before she dies, she’ll be told that you, Amit, you alone sanctioned the removal of her daughters and caused her death. You might be prepared to die for your country, for your hatred, but did Mira, did this innocent creature make the same promise? Is she prepared to lay down her life, to lose her children, just to hurt Israel?”
Tears suddenly began to course from Bhutta’s eyes. His head tilted back, sobbing. Blood dripped from his mouth, down his chin, onto his chest.
“Iran began this cycle of violence,” said Dewey. “Thirty years ago. Time to pay the piper.”
“How did you find them?” Bhutta asked.
“Another stupid question. So many things you Iranians don’t know. It’s almost comical. You’re like cavemen.”
Bhutta lean
ed his chin forward, sobbing. For several moments, he cried uncontrollably. He would get control over his emotions for a few moments, look up to see the screen, then begin again.
Dewey hit him again, swinging his right hand through the air and striking Bhutta across the cheek.
“Stop crying,” said Dewey. “You’re like a little girl. Are you ready to help us now?”
Finally, Bhutta steeled himself. He looked up at Dewey.
“Yes, I’ll help.”
Dewey removed a photograph from his pocket. It was a photo of the nuclear bomb.
“How long is it?” asked Dewey. “And what is the weight?”
Bhutta studied the photo.
“Eight feet, eight inches,” said Bhutta. “Weight is approximately nine thousand pounds.”
“Good start,” said Dewey. He took the photo and put it back in his pocket. “I’ll get you some water now.”
32
TOTALFINA ELF
EURASIA DIRECTORATE
PETROS TOWERS
DUBAI, UNITED ARAB EMIRATES
Petros Towers arose from the sand in black refraction. The red, Middle Eastern sun smacking off the mirrored glass had the effect, at certain angles, of making the building look like it was on fire.
The floor-to-ceiling glass took up every inch of the outer-facing walls of the skyscraper, Dubai’s third-tallest building. Oval-shaped, designed by Frank Gehry, the building seemed simple enough until you stood at its base and stared up at it. There, looking straight up, the building swayed noticeably in the prevailing wind off the Persian Gulf. The skyscraper also tapered as it ascended; the top floor of Petros Towers was less than a quarter the diameter of the bottom floor. The effect was magical and strange, as the architect had intended, like a spindled black caterpillar spiraling up into the endless blue sky.
On the sixtieth floor of Petros Towers, a visitor could be temporarily stunned by the view. The outer-facing walls were all glass, so too were the inner office walls. From every angle and point of view, except of course for the restrooms, the feeling was as if one was trapped inside a sun-blasted prism, with sunlight being cut and recut a hundred times by different angles of glass, and where shards of multicolored light seemed to always be noticeable in rainbowlike chutes. At the same time, the feeling was like flying. To the east, the Persian Gulf in a bold half-circle; oil tankers, container ships, transocean liners, and pleasure boats dotted the blue waters. In the other direction, westward, the city of Dubai, skyscrapers, apartments buildings, then suburbs, and then, starting at midview, the endless, light orange sands of the Arabian desert.
