The small cabin of the jet contained eight leather seats, a leather sofa, a work area with a table, and an aft bedroom. President Allaire, Secretary of State Lindsay, and Jessica occupied the table. Harry Black, the secretary of defense, and Hector Calibrisi, the CIA director, sat in leather seats. Two Deltas and two Secret Service officers were in the leather seats closest to the front of the plane. A couple of aides, who had stayed aboard the jet during the meeting in New Delhi, were seated in the back of the Gulfstream.
“I’m not sure if you deserve a pat on the back or a kick in the ass,” said Lindsay, looking at Jessica. “We didn’t discuss the concept of a coup. As you know there are significant political considerations.”
“She bought us time,” said Black. “Your arguments were not working. In fact, they were antagonizing the Indians, Ghandra especially.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” said Lindsay. “We were progressing them.”
“Bullshit,” said Calibrisi. “If you had kept talking Ghandra would have started dropping bombs just to get you to shut up.”
“I’m not going to dignify that comment,” said Lindsay, shaking his head. “Look, I was three feet away from Allende in 1973 when we removed him. My point is, there are serious consequences from a coup. There are consequences if we’re successful and if we fail. We haven’t debated it much less tried to figure out those consequences. That’s my point.”
“There is nothing that a coup could do, successful or not, that is worse for America than for India to proceed on its present course,” said Jessica. “We know what will happen if they retaliate with nuclear weapons. Pakistan, the sixth-most-populous country in the world, will be effectively wiped out. In addition, let’s assume Pakistan is more capable of launching a counterstrike than the scenarios suggest. Tens of millions of Indians, perhaps hundreds of millions, will also die. It will be a humanitarian crisis on a scale that has never been seen before. And that’s before China is brought into the mix. We can threaten China all we want but the fact is, America will be unable to deploy troops in time, or in quantities, sufficient to deter the Chinese. We’re spread too thin in Iraq and Afghanistan. Are we really ready and willing to stop the Chinese with our own nuclear weapons? I mean, come on. Will we start nuclear war, a war that could lead to nuclear Armageddon, over India?”
“Removing Allende and installing Pinochet required more than a year of planning,” said Lindsay.
“You make a valid point,” said Calibrisi. “But an irrelevant one. We don’t have a year. We have less than two days. We play the cards we’ve been dealt.”
“Jessica bought us time,” said the president. “If Ghandra didn’t like you, Jess, the answer would’ve been no. He gave
you
two days. Probably a credit to the trust you built during your visit last year. Tim, this is a pointless debate. We have forty-six hours. We
are
going to take down Omar El-Khayab. Failure is not an option. The questions before us now are who and how.”
“Who is obvious,” said Black. “SEAL Team Six or Delta.”
“That’s not at all obvious,” said Calibrisi. “This isn’t a military exercise. Special Operations Group, Mr. President.”
“What the fuck does that mean?” asked Black.
“I’m on your side, Harry. But we can’t take the risk that a member of SEAL Team Six or Delta is captured. This is a CIA job. This is a tight kill team operation with deniability, black-on-black. Special Operations Group is untraceable. If, God forbid, one of them is caught, America will not be implicated.”
“You’re naïve if you think they won’t know Special Operations Group is American,” said Black.
“A captured American soldier will bring the wrath of the Muslim world to our doorstep,” said Calibrisi.
“It’s already at our doorstep,” said President Allaire. “Come up with a plan and let’s move.”
“Am I the only person here who thinks this is a terrible idea?” asked Lindsay. “We should redouble our efforts to give diplomacy a chance.”
“This is grown-up time, Mr. Secretary,” barked Black. “The time for diplomacy ended when that nuke dropped. The question before us now is who is going to give us the best chance of removing Omar El-Khayab.”
“We need to make the call,” said Jessica, impatiently.
“We have less than forty-six hours,” agreed Calibrisi. “The team, whoever it is, needs time to plan. If it’s CIA, Political Activities Division needs to plot the targets. For chrissakes, we don’t even know who we would install in place of El-Khayab.”
“Indra Singh was right,” said Black, leaning back, closing his eyes in resignation. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “El-Khayab is going to be impossible to get to. Add to that the basic fact that his countrymen love him. We just don’t have enough time. I’m sorry. It’s a suicide mission.”
President Allaire stared at Black, then Jessica. His face flushed red. He was angry.
“We’re going in!” yelled President Allaire, exasperated. “Giving up is not an option! I don’t like what I’ve heard. Neither of you is giving me a hell of a lot of confidence.”
“I’m not trying to give you confidence,” said Calibrisi. “This is a Hail Mary at best. Leveling with you, Mr. President.”
President Allaire stood up. His face still colored red, his nostrils flared in anger. He took a sip from his bottle of water. Then, he hurled the bottle down the row of seats, where it struck the back of the cockpit door and fell to the ground.
“Goddamn it!” Allaire barked. “The clock is ticking.”
“You need to make a call,” said Jessica.
“
I don’t like the choices!
” shot back the president. “Harry, where would a Delta team come in from?”
“Afghanistan,” said Black. “Kabul. It’ll be patchwork. I’ll be pulling them from another operation.”
“Will any of them have coup experience?” asked Allaire.
“No.”
“What about knowledge of Islamabad?” asked Allaire.
“Yes, that won’t be a problem.”
“What about CIA paramilitary?” asked Allaire, looking at Calibrisi. “You mentioned Special Operations Group. Where are they? How long to get a team in here?”
“We’ll stitch a team together out of Iraq, Afghanistan, and Europe. On the ground in eight to ten hours.”
“Same question,” said Allaire. “What about coup experience?
“We’ve been out of the coup business for some time, Mr. President,” said Calibrisi. “That being said, these guys are good.”
“Not good enough,” said the president, still angry, shaking his head.
The president took a deep breath, walked toward the back of the plane. He turned near the tail end of the seat rows, walked back to the conference table. He sat down.
“Okay,” he said calmly. “I’m looking for a needle in a haystack.”
“If you ask me, we use Delta out of Kabul,” said Jessica. “At least they could get started soon.”
“But is there anyone out there better than what we have?” asked President Allaire. “What about MI6? Mossad? Private contractors? I know that’s crazy, but—”
“That’s not your profile here,” said Black. “No other country is going to have any better options than America. Hell, they would have the same exact debate we’re having right now but with dramatically inferior options.”
“As for hiring a private kill team,” added Calibrisi. “As someone who does that from time to time, I can tell you that will not work. This must be a team of Americans. Patriots. Because when the shit hits the fan, they need to be willing to die for their cause. And that’s the bottom line.”
“I agree,” said Black.
The president nodded and looked at his watch. “Very well,” he said. “Hector, it’s CIA. Your operation. Your mission. Harry, give ’em whatever he needs. Get going.”
Calibrisi nodded at President Allaire. He looked briefly, blankly, at Harry Black. Then his eyes moved to Jessica’s. He stared for a moment into her eyes.
The president started to walk toward the front of the plane.
Calibrisi grinned to himself, then cleared his throat.
“There is someone, Mr. President,” Calibrisi said. “I hadn’t thought of him until now, until this very moment.”
The president turned. He looked at Calibrisi. “Who?” he asked. “Does he work for the CIA?”
“No, he’s not CIA,” said Calibrisi. “But he’s American and a patriot. The one person alive who would make this, well, maybe a little less than a Hail Mary.”
“Who?” Allaire asked, impatience in his voice.
“I’m sorry, Jess,” Calibrisi said, looking into Jessica’s eyes. He turned to the president. “Dewey Andreas.”
COOKTOWN
Talbot sat in the middle of the backseat of the M5, which sped at more than eighty miles an hour away from Cooktown. His head rested against the seat cushion. Blood coursed from his now broken nose, from his mouth, and from the back of his head.
“What’s the name?” the odd-looking, blond-haired terrorist screamed from the front passenger seat. He struck Talbot again in the head with the butt of the pistol, this time harder, at a spot just above his temple. More blood.
The first strike—the one to the back of the skull—in a quick moment, altered everything. Talbot was extremely dizzy, nauseous, and tired.
On some level, even though he didn’t know the words “subdural hematoma,” Talbot knew he was about to die. When he had been forced at gunpoint from the bar and into the backseat of the BMW, Talbot still harbored some hope that he would escape from this bizarre episode with his life. But the blow to the head had changed everything. He felt tired, a dull, deep pain that was too severe, and a wetness of blood flowing down his back, which he knew was coming from his skull.
“Where do you work?” said the blond, yelling at him in a fervent, high-pitched voice. “Just give me the name of the ranch and we’ll drop you at the hospital.”
“You hit him too hard, Youssef,” said the driver, looking in the rearview mirror. “He’s going to die before he tells us the name.”
“Fuck off,” said Youssef. “Drive the car and shut your piehole.”
Youssef aimed his pistol at Talbot’s right knee and fired. A slug tore into the front of his knee, ripping a hole in the jeans and splattering bone and blood.
Talbot screamed and felt himself coming back from the gauzy brink of unconsciousness. He felt the intense, sharp, searing burn of the bullet in his leg. It focused him. He could do this.
Hold on,
he told himself.
“Start talking,” screamed the blond terrorist from the passenger seat. “You fucking dumb fuck, start talking.”
The blond reached to Talbot’s jacket and found his wallet.
“What kind of name is Youssef?” asked Talbot, breathing hard, sweat mixing with blood on the front of his face.
“It’s a beautiful name,” said Youssef, pulling apart the wallet. “Now shut the fuck up unless you’re telling me the name of the ranch.”
“What’d he do? Why do you want to hurt him?”
“Andreas killed someone,” said the blond. “Tonight he’s going to die.”
“What’s the name of the fucking ranch?” yelled the driver.
“I have something,” said Youssef. “Who is this?” He held up a photo of a girl with short brown hair and freckles. It was Talbot’s little sister, Lolly. “Cute kid. Your little sister?”
Talbot groaned as pain from his legs enveloped him.
“And here’s an address,” said the terrorist, holding up a small slip of paper. “Cairns. Archie Street. What is it?”
Talbot started to cry.
The blond trained the gun at Talbot’s head.
“Cairns is a few hours from here,” said the terrorist, looking back at Talbot. “If you die before you tell us the name of the ranch we will simply go to Cairns. Believe me, I will kill anyone and everyone at this address. This cute little girl; maybe I’ll rape her before I kill her.”
Talbot felt a surge of fear, and nausea, at the man’s words.
He glanced into the eyes of the man who’d just shot him. Youssef. No emotion. Cold, dark pools of hatred stared back at him. The terrorist said something in a language he didn’t understand, then moved the nozzle of the weapon slightly left. Fired another shot, this one into the left kneecap, and this time the pain was incredible, it struck like an electric shock down Talbot’s leg in the same instant a wash of blood and bone arced from the knee into his mouth and eyes.
“Someone’s behind us,” said the driver. “He’s getting closer.”
* * *
Dewey pulled the Porsche out of the parking spot on the side street, accelerated, burst forward in a fifty-foot quick sprint, then, at the intersection, yanked back on the emergency brake; the car rotated into a 180-degree turn. He pressed the accelerator to the ground and the sound of the screeching tires ripped the air. Within a few seconds he had the Panamera tearing down the road—toward the men who had just abducted Talbot—at more than a hundred miles an hour.
In two blocks, he cut a sharp left, then accelerated down a street headed away from town. Small bungalows, homes with tidy grass lawns, lined the narrow streets, now dark. Dewey throttled the sedan as fast as it would go, barely under control.
There was but one way to get to Sembler, but the terrorists were headed in the opposite direction. Talbot hadn’t given up the name yet.
Once the Arab at the bar had seen Dewey, he set off a swarm. First in the street, and now. They were on him. Events were on him. He struggled to focus on the chase at hand. He wished he’d had one less drink.
Jessica’s phone call saved his life. Yet even with the tip, Dewey had still underestimated the scope, the seriousness, the size, hell, even the very
existence
of the cell. A seven-man incursion was no small matter. The planning involved in getting the team into Australia, post-9/11, was impressive. They were running an expensive, elaborate mission. This cell was different, more sophisticated, like a special forces team, prepared to move quickly and attack en masse.
He should not have come with Talbot tonight.
He pushed the accelerator down, looked at the speedometer. Nearly one hundred and twenty miles per hour. The street merged with two others and soon he was on Route 81, heading out of Cooktown proper. He had to reach the terrorists’ car before they killed Talbot.