Vertigo

by Wesley Cross

  To his surprise, when they had started to question their prisoners, neither Malik Zubair nor the American buyer, Erik Hanson, put up any fight. They were mercenaries, driven by the sole desire to sell their services to the highest bidder, and for the moment Connelly was it.

  “We should have handed Hanson over to the CIA,” Doug said to Connelly as they marched on, keeping the captives a few yards ahead of them. “If he’s telling the truth, the other half of the payment hasn’t been even cashed out yet. And now, since we got him, we’ll never know when and where it’s gonna be.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Money’s only one part of the equation. We need to find out who his bosses are. Besides, once our guys are done with him, they’ll hand him over anyway. I don’t think Hanson will be a free bird ever again.”

  “I don’t like the fucker.” Doug spat on the dusty surface of the road. “If it was up to me, I’d put him down like the rabid dog he is. You gotta be something to work with those assholes.”

  “Don’t you think they’re going to guard it like Fort Knox?” Pat interjected. “Twenty-five mil is a lot of dough to leave unattended.”

  “It’ll be guarded, all right. But there’s no love lost between the different factions here and putting up a large garrison is going to attract some unwanted attention. Secrecy is a much better protection than a few extra AK-47s.”

  In front of them, Malik Zubair slowed down, and then stopped as he examined the rocky wall.

  “What’s he doing?” Doug said, pointing at the man with a barrel of his MP5.

  “We need to climb up here,” Zubair said.

  For anyone continuing up the road, the path would have been almost invisible. But now, as Connelly knew where to look, he could see a trail weaving through the boulders and disappearing up the hill. It zigzagged first, climbing steadily up for a couple of hundred yards and then ran parallel to the ground around the mountain.

  “How far?”

  “It’s about three kilometers around the mountain, but we’ll have to make a loop to come from above, so it’ll add another one, maybe one-and-a-half.”

  “I need you to tell me where the guards are.”

  “There are usually two guards by the cave. And there’s a cliff about three hundred meters before the cave. They’ll have another guard or two watching the path from there.”

  “Can we get to them unnoticed?”

  “That’s why we need to make a loop.”

  “Go on, then.”

  Connelly watched as the man started to climb up the steep path.

  “You, go after him,” he nodded to Hanson, “and let’s pick up the pace. We don’t have all day.”

  “I don’t like this,” Doug said. “I feel like we’re being led into a trap.”

  “Let’s keep our heads on a swivel.”

  They trekked the path up and around the mountain for half an hour. When Zubair started to head up again, looping around the cliff where he said the insurgents would be keeping watch, Connelly stopped the group.

  “You two, sit down back to back and don’t move until I return,” he commanded to the detainees. “Pat, you’re watching them. If they as much as blink funny, shoot the motherfuckers.”

  “You got it.”

  He nodded to Doug and together they continued on the path until Patrick and the two prisoners disappeared from the view.

  “What’s the plan, boss?”

  “We climb first.” Connelly pointed straight up. “I think two guys by the cave and another two dudes three hundred yards out sounds too easy.”

  “Yeah. He’s up to something.”

  The climb turned difficult just after the first few yards. The surface was a treacherous mix of loose pebbles and dry soil. More than once they found themselves sliding back, unable to stop the descent, digging their bleeding fingers into the ground as anchors. After what seemed an eternity, Connelly crept out onto a rocky bluff hanging above the path that Zubair was leading them on.

  “Fuck me,” Doug whispered as he crawled next to Connelly. He rolled on his back, facing the sky, and took a few long breaths. “I hate mountains.”

  “Yeah.”

  Doug rolled back on his stomach, took out binoculars, and scanned the hillside under their position.

  “That little shit. There,” he whispered, pointing down. “A guy with a Dragunov.”

  As Connelly looked in the direction of Doug’s hand, he saw it—a slender silhouette of a Russian-made sniper rifle peeking out from behind a boulder, just a hundred yards below them. Another fifty yards down the mountain, under the sniper’s nest, he could see two more guards laying prone on the cliff above the entrance to the cave.

  “How do we get this fucker?” Doug whispered.

  Connelly scanned the area. The sniper’s body was almost entirely hidden behind a gray boulder, leaving only the top of his turban above the surface of the rock, a pair of boots sticking out on one side, and the end of the rifle on the other. As far as he could see, there was no way to climb around the man without attracting his attention, and an altercation with the sniper would alert the two guards below him. Connelly turned back to Doug.

  “How well can you throw?”

  “I dunno.” Doug shrugged. “Well enough.”

  “I can see the tip of his turban,” Mike pointed down, “but he’s too low. I need him to look up. Can you hit that boulder from here?”

  “I think so. But what about the guys below him? They’ll hear the shot.”

  “Don’t worry.” Mike stood up on one knee and took a careful aim. “Just make the fucker look up. Let me know before you throw.”

  He slowed down his breathing and rested his cheek on the buttstock of his MP5.

  “I got a good pebble,” Doug said.

  Connelly aligned the sights of the submachine gun and placed the tip of the turban dead center of the front sight holder. His index finger slid inside the trigger guard and rested lightly on the serrated surface.

  “Three,” Doug said behind him in a hoarse whisper. “Two, one. Go.”

  A pebble went too left and instead of hitting the boulder, flicked the man’s boot, startling him. A surprised face popped in Connelly’s sights and he pulled the trigger. Red liquid splattered the rock, and the turban disappeared as quickly as it showed up. Connelly swung the weapon and let out two short bursts as the guards below reacted to the commotion, cutting them down. He kept the gun trained on the crumpled bodies down below, but there was no other movement. The boots behind the boulder were not stirring either.

  “Good shootin’, boss.” Doug patted him on the shoulder.

  “Thanks. You can tell Pat to start moving.”

  “Can I tell him not to bring anyone else?”

  “No,” Connelly said. “I’m afraid we’re gonna have to keep those two for a bit longer.”

  By the time Connelly and Doug made their way down to the cave, Patrick already had the two prisoners clearing out the entrance. Big boulders that were blocking the entry were rolled aside, and loose tree branches that served as camouflage were now piled next to the dark, gaping hole.

  Connelly turned the flashlight on and stepped into the cave, keeping his MP5 at the ready. The narrow corridor widened after a few yards and then opened up into a large rectangular place with a low ceiling and a pair of hefty wooden torches affixed to the walls on the opposite sides of the cavern.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Pat said behind him. “Do you see what I see? Is it what I think it is?”

  Connelly walked to one of the torches and flicked a Zippo. The fire licked an oil-soaked rag for a moment and then spread around with a soft whoosh, throwing long shadows around the cave. Connelly turned back and walked to the center of the room.

  There were what appeared to be large boxes sitting on top of wooden pallets. They were covered with a heavy tarp, and someone placed a few rocks on top of the rough material to keep it from moving. Connelly walked around the pallets and swept the rocks off, then picked up the corner of the t
arp and, in one motion, pulled it off to the side.

  “Yeah,” Connelly said, looking at the five-foot-tall stacks of one-hundred-dollar bills wrapped in plastic. “I think it is. And I’m certain it’s more than twenty-five mil.”

  38

  October 2007

  New York

  “This is huge, Jim,” Andrew said, looking out the kitchen window. “This is not normal.”

  “Of course, it isn’t normal,” Rovinsky said, as he poured himself a glass of water and settled on a couch. “My entire house can fit inside your kitchen. I need to stop and take a break every time I take a walk to the bathroom because I get winded. How’s that normal?”

  “Stop it.”

  “I’m serious, Andy. You should give your guests a scooter. You know why I never bring Susan to New York? Because if I do, I’ll have to bring her over when you and Audrey decide to host a dinner. I’m convinced that she’ll divorce me right after the visit.”

  “You give her too little credit,” Andrew said. “Susan’s one of the loveliest people I’ve ever met.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Jim said. “We’ve only been married for thirty-two years, so I haven’t decided yet if I’m going to keep her. Talk to me—why are you so glum? We’ve struck gold in Kabul. We had some losses, it’s true, but the operation’s been a massive success. I thought you’d be happy? You wanted a war chest? You’ve got a massive one. Or you’re still jet-lagged from your flight back from the Stan?”

  “I’m not jet-lagged anymore, and I was happy,” Andrew said, “until yesterday’s news about Rosario Jones.”

  “They’ve briefed me on the attack, just like everybody else,” Jim said, “but I haven’t seen anything different from what’s been reported by the media. It sounds like some white nationalists who were unhappy with her agenda did it. She’s been driving at them pretty hard for the last couple of years.”

  “Yes, she has,” Andrew agreed, “but I don’t think those were white nationalists.”

  “But she’s been targeted by those guys before,” Jim said. “A few months back, somebody sprayed a swastika on her car and then there was an incident when she found a KKK hood in her office.”

  “That may be true,” Andrew said, “but I think those assholes were just a useful tool and as far as the actual assassination, it was carried out by someone else. A team of professionals.”

  “You think it was a paid hit? I don’t know,” Jim said. “It seems like a stretch. Look, it’s never normal when a US senator gets assassinated. This is the first time something like this happened since the Peoples Temple’s crazies killed Congressman Leo Ryan in Guyana. What was it? Nineteen seventy-seven?”

  “Seventy-eight,” Andrew said, “but those were religious fanatics. This is something else.”

  “Look, I hear you, and I’m as appalled as you are, but can we talk about the operation in Kabul, for a second?” Jim said. “What are you planning to do with the money? On the one hand, I’m excited, but I have to say I’m shitting my pants at the very thought of you laundering over half a billion dollars.”

  Andrew Hunt turned away from the window, walked back across the room, and took a seat opposite his friend.

  “Jim,” he said, “work with me here. I know I’ve been driving everyone insane in the past few weeks and sleep hours have been scarce, but think. Who was Rosario Jones?”

  “A second-term US senator from Texas.” Jim shrugged and looked up, trying to remember. “A rising star, some people called her. A centrist Republican. Popular with the Hispanics, African Americans, and the younger folks. Why?”

  “Can you name one piece of legislation that has caused more controversy in the last year than the—”

  “The Public Safety Concern Act,” Rovinsky interrupted him. “She was the swing vote against it. Not sure how it is even possible that there’s a debate on that issue.”

  “That’s right,” Andrew said. “This legislation will make the police response to certain crimes optional. And as the argument goes, any possible rise in crime should be mitigated by installing the Safety Web Network, the all-seeing network of cameras hooked to the massive AI which will determine which activities justify the use of the police force.”

  “Well, that’s how they’ve been selling it,” Rovinsky said. “Not that I’m buying it.”

  “There’s another piece of the puzzle for you,” Andrew continued. “Jones is slated to be replaced by no one else but Ron Mulvany, an outspoken supporter of the bill, and the son of the disgraced Phillip Mulvany, who’s been married to corporate interests his entire life.”

  “I didn’t know that. You’re saying the cabal is behind it? They want the act to pass?”

  “Of course they do, Jim,” Andrew said. “Let me draw a picture for you. As it stands now, the bill doesn’t describe which crimes should be addressed and which shouldn’t. Of course, they will position it as something each municipality should define themselves, according to their laws.”

  “But, to play devil’s advocate, that could be a good thing. It could eliminate the need to respond to small offenses. Which should free up the cops to do better on something important.”

  “Sure. That’s the sales pitch. Somebody double-parked a car? Didn’t stop for a school bus with flashing lights? You don’t need to send a heavily armored SWAT truck their way. Capture them on video and send them a ticket in the mail.”

  “Right,” Jim said. “But?”

  “But who gets to decide what should be looked at and what shouldn’t? It can send it down the slippery slope of bigger and bigger crimes that never get reported at all. We know that the cabal controls some of the law enforcement already. Now they get to dictate how they behave and when.”

  “Turning it off and on, like a cop planting evidence with his dashcam offline?”

  “Exactly. A rival corporation starts building a new plant and somebody sets it on fire, but poof.” Andrew made a gesture like a magician making his assistant disappear. “Wait, where’s the tape?”

  “That’s science fiction,” Rovinsky said. “That would require massive cooperation of different levels of the police department. Some of them might be crooked, but not all of them.”

  “No, not all of them,” Andrew agreed, “but it doesn’t require all of them or even that many people. It only requires a tech guy who controls the video feeds, and a person in charge somewhere high enough for the cover-up. To make sure nobody messes with the tech guy.”

  “Let’s say you’re right.”

  “You know I’m right,” Andrew said, “but that’s not all. It’s not just the law enforcement issue. It’s also the issue of control.”

  “Control of what?”

  “Everything, Jim,” Andrew said. He stood up and walked back to the window. “This is the greatest intrusion into anyone’s privacy ever. Whoever controls those cameras will not just control the police response. They will control an unbelievable amount of information and let me tell you, if I’ve learned anything in my life, it is that information is the ultimate currency. Whoever knows more controls the narrative and therefore wins.”

  “But the news organizations surely—”

  “How will the news organizations find out there’s an incident to report on if nobody calls it in?”

  “Man.” Rovinsky took a long gulp of water, set the glass on the table, and leaned back on the couch. “My head is spinning.”

  “My head’s been spinning since I joined you in that hot car down in DC,” Andrew said. “I’ve been living in a perpetual bout of vertigo ever since. And it’s only going to get worse. I’ve spoken to the president, and he agrees with me. But that news is only half-good, Jim. Those in the government who oppose the measure, notably the president himself, will want to wrestle this tool out of other people’s hands.”

  “Sets them on the collision course,” Rovinsky said. “A war.”

  “That’s right,” Andrew replied, “and like any other war, those who suffer will not be the people at the top
. A war is coming, Jim. Not the likes of which we’ve seen before, but the results will be similar, nonetheless. It will destroy neighborhoods and some people will die. Poverty will rise, and kids will starve. The very fabric of our society will rip and fray, and we will see it with our own eyes.”

  39

  October 2007

  New York

  Jill Cooper dreamed of Sa Calobra beach at the end of the Torrent de Pareis gorge. The jagged slopes of the Serra de Tramuntana framed the view like a movie shot and the sky over the ocean was a cloudless well of deep blue stretched over her head as far as the eye could see. When she first opened her eyes, the light from the windows, diffused by azure-colored curtains, if only for a moment, let the illusion linger, but then, the night vision slipped away and disappeared into the bright daylight.

  She got up and walked to the window and peered through the glass from behind the curtain. The view couldn’t be any farther from the Mediterranean shoreline—it snowed overnight in Brooklyn; the first snow of the year. It was still too warm for it to stay on the ground. In front of her brownstone sitting on a quiet block of Prospect Park, the snow had already turned into a gray slush, and from here Cooper could see a few of her neighbors shoveling it away. But the front yard, the steps, and the railings ending with a pair of cone-shaped knobs still looked pristine, and Cooper stood there for a few moments, taking it all in. Enjoying the simple geometric beauty of black and white lines and right angles.

  In another place, in another life, Cooper thought. She sighed and let the curtain go. There was work to be done.

  She pulled on a tracksuit and a pair of old Nikes and went for a four-mile run around the Green-Wood Cemetery, getting into the rhythm of her step, keeping her breath steady. Then, she followed it by a workout in her basement gym. Some weights and a punching bag, some stretching, and then a few rounds on a punching bag again. She showered and had a quick breakfast and then called a car service. There was someone she needed to talk to.