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 what 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.
Calibrisi flipped the buckles on his briefcase. Lifting it open, he took out a bottle of Jack Daniel’s with a red, white, and blue ribbon tied around the neck.
“Well, if it’s who I think it is,” said Calibrisi, smiling and handing Jessica the bottle, “you tell him I said thank you.”
FOURTEENTH AVENUE AND FIFTY-EIGHTH STREET
BOROUGH PARK
BROOKLYN, NEW YORK
FOUR MONTHS LATER
A Saturday afternoon in May and the streets of Brooklyn were busy. Even in this small Jewish residential neighborhood known as Borough Park, the sidewalks were filled with people.
The weather was picture-perfect, a warm day, temperatures in the seventies, one of the first warm days of the year. Everyone in the neighborhood of brownstone apartment buildings was out, sitting on stoops, talking with neighbors, walking young children, enjoying life.
At the corner, a yellow taxicab pulled over to the sidewalk. A young man climbed out of the back of the cab. His brown hair was slightly long. His face was tan. He wore khakis, a blue button-down shirt. He was big and athletic. He shut the door to the cab, then reached into the front window and handed the driver some money.
The man walked with a slight limp down the sidewalk. It didn’t slow him down, but it was noticeable. His face had a hint of sadness to it. His brown eyes, however, belied that sadness. His eyes told a different story. Their deep, blank pools of brown surveyed the street with trained suspicion. It was the suspicion that is part of you when you are born into a world of conflict, bloodshed, and death; the suspicion that alone is that of the Israeli.
But here, in Borough Park, he was not alone. He was among family. He was greeted by smiles from strangers, who recognized somehow, from the way his face looked, his bloodline, his heritage. He returned the smiles with blank stares. He was here for a reason.
He had visited them all now, except for one, the families of the members of S’13 who had died that day at Rafic Hariri Airport. He had visited the families to describe to them, in detail, what had happened. He wasn’t required to do so, but it was his way. It was the way he chose to lead. Only twenty-five, and already he had been made commander of all of S’13. There are some men who are born to lead. It is untrained and people follow these men, from a young age, and he was one of them. Part of the way he chose to lead was to do what he was doing today. To fly half a world away in order to sit down with a dead comrade’s parents and explain to them that their son died fighting for something important, something he had believed in.
He walked up the steep, wide steps of a pretty redbrick apartment building. He nodded to a pair of teenage girls who sat on the steps, both of whom blushed, then giggled back at him.
Next to the door was a strip of doorbells. He read the names. He reached out and pressed the button of the bottom name:
BOHR.